This is 60, Part 1

Those milestone birthdays on which one enters a new decade never bothered me much: 20, 30, 40, 50, whatever.

Some numbers did get to me regarding age, though. For example, 24 meant I was getting too old to be a college guy and I had to move on with my life, which was hard because I loved the college life. Then age 37 was tough because that number implied a maturity that I didn’t really cotton to accepting in my life.

Forty-eight didn’t sit well, either, as I felt at 48 I could no longer be thought of as a young man in anyone’s estimation. Yes, I was officially middle-aged at 48. And 55, well, many places accept that as certified senior citizen status, and I wanted nothing to do with that old folks stuff.

A week from now, though, I will be 60, and that decade change in age is eating at me. Okay, maybe it’s not exactly eating at me, because I’m neither a deep nor contemplative person, but it’s certainly nibbling at me. In our society, age 60 is thought of, almost universally, as old, and I don’t like being thought of that way.

Looking at it realistically, I probably have another 20 years on the planet, 30 at the most. On my mom’s side, I come from a family of people who, if they don’t drink themselves to death, live long lives. My Uncle Sam is 95 and still going shockingly strong. So I might last a while.

Aside from a bit of a blood pressure issue and the asthma problem I’ve had throughout my life, I’m active and healthy. I still play basketball with mostly much younger men a couple times a week. I haven’t lost much quickness because I never had much to begin with. The only thing plaguing me lately on the court is a partially torn right rotator cuff in my overworked shooting shoulder, and that malady has fair days and bad days but is being helped with rehab.

I walk both our dogs twice daily, with the bigger, younger dog dragging me along on quite lengthy jaunts. I work out on my exercise bike on all days when I’m not missing layups, firing up ill-advised threes and trying to squeeze passes into places where they can’t possibly fit.

I love my teaching job because I love being around young people. I’m a bit of a ham, and the students have to attend class, so I have captive audiences for my bad jokes and goofy stories throughout the work week. My screenwriting has been going well, to the point where I’m doing so much commissioned work that I don’t have time for my own projects.

For some reason, the number 66 is stuck in my head as the age at which I’ll retire from teaching. (I will never retire from writing) But I can’t imagine living the life of many retirees … golfing, puttering around the yard and talking about grandkids, hip replacements and bowel movements. I want to be around vital people doing vital things for the rest of my life, even more so than I am now if possible.

So life is good, and I’m generally a happy guy, but I never imagined being 60.

Most of us are lucky in that our mental default setting takes us away from constantly dwelling on that inevitable end to it all. Many of us console ourselves with the thought of a bucolic afterlife, but my mind won’t accept that. It would be easier, but my brain just won’t buy that.

So I intend to keep having an unrestricted productive time, and good time, for as long as I hold up.

And I intend to do that no matter what the numbers say. Bret Kofford teaches writing at San Diego State-imperial valley. He can be reached at kofford@roadrunner. com