When I was a young teenager I used to think 20 was old, and when I turned twenty, 30 sounded really old. Thirty zipped by with a whooshing sound, and like a bolt of lightning shooting down through Dr. Frankenstein’s castle tower, the crackle of the BIG FOUR-O nearly blinded me with a whitewashed afterimage of fluttering black crows and dead silhouetted treetops.
For a while it seemed fifty-something was a safe distance away, reserved for graying gentlemen dressed in three-piece pinstriped suits, who fretted when their shoes weren’t shined just so.
What a strange game this has become: playing catch-up with the universe, which is not only expanding while we look at it, but speeding up as well.
Now that I’ve survived the first half-century of my life and then some, maybe it’s time to quit counting. My silvered cheeks are quite distinguished looking and my fingers still seem to be able to peck at the keyboard. Besides, 60 is so very far away. . .
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Tim says: but I gotta tell you, today — in the here-and-now of 2010 — 70 doesn’t seem far away at all.