Way back when I was getting-old as opposed to actually being old, 30 was this big-deal, black magic moment which, once past, meant you could no longer be trusted. I suppose, considering the rampant avarice and greed leading to the current financial meltdown, that was a prophetic idea.

I remember the several days leading up to that momentous event were fraught with anxiety mixed with a curious calm. Would the planet split open and swallow me whole? Would I cut my hair, don a suit and tie and go forth into the business world? Would my younger friends suddenly shun me? Would I be beamed aboard the starship and whisked away from this veil of tears? Though I fervently hoped for the latter, none of it happened. As the old saying goes, 30 came and went, not with a bang but a whimper.

50, now, was a totally different thing. Never mind 40. 40 I don’t even remember except for the fact that my hair went nearly completely white and I finally gave in to wearing glasses at 42. 50, however, was evil incarnate for reasons I’ve never explored. I couldn’t even say ‘50′ until I was damn near 52.

50 has not been kind to me.

60? 60 is proving to be a bit of a mixed bag of cheap tricks. First and foremost, I never ever thought I’d make it this far, all things considered. Now that I’m here, I find it both mildly humorous and somewhat pathetic. I’m certainly not where I thought I’d be, if I ever actually gave where I thought I’d be any thought. There are moments when I actually wish I was 2.5 years older so I could just do the social security thing and be done with this working thing but that probably wouldn’t work.

I hate being this old. I hate the aches and the pains and the growing sense of vulnerability. I hate that there is a 30 year old inside who thinks he can still do 30 year old things only to find that this 60 year old body protests. I hate that my hair, though still as long as ever, is thinning and that my teeth are getting loose in their sockets. I hate looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back at me. I hate that I can’t eat a big bowl of ice cream drowning in chocolate syrup, or extra extra hot chili, or any number of things I once enjoyed.

Is there anything I like about 60? I’m not sure yet, though I sense that there is. I smell something in the wind, perceive the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, though my natural pessimism tells me that wind, that light, is just that damn train again. Still, there are moments when I get a kick out of the idea of turning 60. Like maybe now I can just be a coot, an old fart, and finally get away with not giving a shit.

I’m still waiting for the starship, though. Sure do wish it would get here. Winter’s coming and I’m growing impatient.