by Dave Williams
August 6, 2021
Today I’m seventy.
It didn’t exactly sneak up on me. I’ve thought about that number quite a bit in the past year or more.
“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty, the youth of old age.” – Victor Hugo
I don’t like cheesy wordplay but that probably seemed brilliant three hundred years ago.
Hugo lived to 83. If he said anything about seventy he seems to have kept it to himself, which is wise. At seventy we shouldn’t need to have aging explained to us.
The problem with age is that it pesters us from birth when people begin keeping track of the numbers of days, then weeks and months we’ve lived. We’re taught to celebrate the arbitrary concepts of years and decades past.
We celebrate mere survival more than life itself.
When I turned fifty my father laughed and told me it made him feel old. He was seventy-two and for no good reason at all he died six months later. I hate that I remember this by the numbers.
This obsession we have with age is a cultural curse. It segregates us. It stigmatizes us. Old people are irrelevant; young people are ignorant.
It confuses us as we move from one age box to the next.
So, here’s my birthday wish:
Don’t call me a senior citizen. It’s neither endearing nor insulting, it’s just irrelevant. In fact, don’t refer to me by age at all unless it’s the specific topic of conversation or a good old person joke. I like old people jokes that are funny, not corny or mean.
I’m not ashamed of my age, it just doesn’t matter. I’m no different now than I was at twenty; I’m still living and learning, still loving life and excited about tomorrow.
At seventy, numbers don’t matter.
I’ll be back here ten years from now to let you know if that’s still true.