Turning Sixty is Freaking Me Out

This year I turn Sixty. Once I said it out loud, I thought I would drop dead of a heart attack. For years, I feared that if I ever walked into my bathroom and saw a python floating around in my toilet bowl (it could happen), I would die. My heart would not be able to take it—the same thing with accepting that I will be turning 60. It’s freaking scary. But I said it, and I am still here. 

I planned to sit down and write something profoundly moving about this milestone. Fat chance of that happening. I play casino slot machine games on my phone and watch all of The Real Housewives, so no one is taking life advice from me. Nevertheless, the best way to accept this is to acknowledge it. 

There are still many months (a few) till I turn sixty. I like to spread out my depression. Or just prepare myself. I had a colonoscopy a few months before I turned fifty. My logic was that turning 50 was scary enough so let’s get some of the other bad stuff out of the way before the big day. Working on the acceptance.

Here Comes the Old Lady

I had my first kid a good eight to ten years later than most of the other women around me. Sure, if I was raising my kids in New York City, San Francisco, or a cool town like Bend, Oregon, the median age of childbirth goes way up. But in a small, conservative suburb of Philadelphia, I’m the old lady in the room. 

I have been very elusive about revealing my age. Not that I lie outright. My go-to trick is to ramble on, saying nothing coherent, and usually, people change the subject or, more likely, run away.  

Never have I been comfortable with my age. Everyone around me always seemed more mature and older than me. I still feel that way. The only time I feel my age is when I have to admit it out loud, see it written on a document, or when filling out a form. Scrolling to find my birth year takes centuries. It’s a long scroll from 2022, never mind what newborn is filling out a form, to 1962.  

Pants on Fire

Another option was to lie, as, for many years, I did look younger. Not boasting as Im not saying I looked good, just more youthful. I nixed that option as I would rather people think I look good for my actual age than bad for my fake age. The last time I was carded, I was pregnant and 40. I only buy alcohol at Wegmans. They card til death.

Where’s My Fake I.D.?

 I have been in denial, even admitting my age to myself. I married a man five years younger. That was no accident. For years I wouldn’t even bring the intrusive AARP literature into the house. It went right from the mailbox to recycle bin. Until one day, I glanced at the portable lunch tote they were tempting me with, and I did reluctantly join. Now they keep me hooked by putting the best-looking celebrities over 50 they can find on the cover of their magazine. I read it. It’s not on my coffee table but finds its way to another more private prime real estate reading area in my house. 

My vision of what one looks like at any age is pretty much based on my family and famous has-been people. 

Although my grandmother lived into her nineties when she was fifty, she looked one hundred and ten. Women born at the turn of the century did not join Crunch and take spin classes. The styles didn’t help much. 

My mother could have been a model for Geritol at forty. Her face was youthful, but the sleep- with-hair-wrapped- in-toilet-paper and set- once- a -week-salon- styled-hair-do did not help. Nor did the polyester leisure suits. 

The only thing I can do now, save for jumping into an active volcano, is to throw out all the old wives’ tales, superstitions, and suppose-tos that have been planted in my brain, creating some kind of cavewomen’s guide to aging.

Turning sixty is not like moving to a new country with a different climate. I don’t have to buy a new wardrobe, make new friends and throw out my rollerblades. These old rules have gone the way of the busy signal and a paper map. 

Goodby Aquanet and a Rain Bonnet

 The first adage I overruled was that women should cut their hair at forty. Well, for the most part. A friend’s mother once told me that just because someone says, “oh, your hair is so long,” does not mean it’s a compliment. Despite that, there is no reason to get out the bobby pins and sleep in pin curls. The advent of miracle products has kept many a grandmom stylin’ with longer hair. 

When I lived in a center city Philadelphia apartment in my twenties, I had a neighbor who I thought was 75. My guess now is that she wasn’t even 50. She wore every trendy outfit that graced the magazine pages of Glamour and possibly Seventeen.  Women of a certain age were supposed to dress like women of a certain age. I was young and stupid. A hundred decades later, I applaud her for having the courage to wear whatever she felt comfortable in.

 I have determined that, as cliche as it sounds, my age is truly only a number and has no bearing on my day-to-day existence. My life will proceed as it has been. As with most of my younger friends, we are all equally struggling with the approach of the empty nest. I may be talking about retirement, but only because my husband is ready a bit earlier than most. 

However, I do have a confession. Even though I would like to knock out anyone that spews uplifting platitudes about the best being yet to come, I am embracing some habits and actions of the elderly.

• I take a vitamin for women over fifty. I can’t bring myself yet to buy the one that says Silver because it reminds me of my 93-year-old grandfather. I may reconsider, as he did make it to 93.
• I have a pillbox. If I didn’t, I would have overdosed by now and be dead. I need to have the pills in the compartment with the dates clearly written. Otherwise, 2 minutes after I take the drugs, I forget I took them and would retake them.  
• I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. It has been a goal all my life, but now I wonder why. Caring about what people think kept me in line. Now I scream at any poor sucker that looks at me the wrong way. 
• My sneakers are for walking. That’s it. 

The list is growing, and I am almost entirely ok with it.

My hodge-podge thoughts have led me to conclude that I have accepted the changing digits of life. This op/ed in the New York Times simply conveys my feelings a bit more articulately.

Wrapping This Up

So why the Fear?

I spend a lot of time living in and glorifying the past. It’s incredible how I can turn a nightmarish afternoon at a Chuck E. Cheese with escaping children and horrendous pizza into my most treasured memory. No one else is thinking about that creepy mouse with a smile on their face.    

My fear is not turning 60 but fear of the unknown. The past is known. The focus on the number is just a distraction.

This revelation is not shockingly mindblowing, but I am going to be ok. When I wake up on my birthday, there will not be a pack of gray haired senior citizens at my door welcoming me to their bridge club. I’m not yet going to be looking for coupons for sensible shoes and support hose. I’m still me and actually comfortable in my over-tanned- baby-oil in-my-teens-skin than I have ever been. I’m ready to shake off the fear.

The future will be an unknown adventure that I will joyfully document.

However, please do not wish me a Happy Birthday yet. I have many, many months to go. Maybe.