So, I’m turning sixty. SIXTY! Sixty. 60. No matter how you slice it, I have six decades of living under my belt.
Up to this point, birthdays ending in “0” have never bothered me.
Ten? Almost a teenager. Groovy!
Twenty? No longer a teenager, thank goodness.
Thirty was okay. A gang of us used to go out for decadent desserts when someone reached that milestone.
Life was so busy around my fortieth birthday it passed without notice. I felt a million years old at that point, so forty was, like, pfft. Not even worth thinking about.
Fifty? Fifty heralded the best years of my life. I was old enough to know better, but young enough to do it anyhow, with a bit more free time to carry things off.
