Six decades and couting

At the end of July, I turned 60 years old. 60. At first it was a little bit of a tough concept to grasp. I’ve been thinking about it, and as I watch other friends an acquaintances in my age group also approach it, or already have turned it, the range of reactions varies wildly. Some bemoan it with a sense dread, longing for their youth. Some seem to be indifferent to it: Just another day, and just another year. Still others embrace it with a sense of joy.

As for me, I guess there is a lot of joy to be had. After all, I almost didn’t make it to sixty. Hell, I almost didn’t make it to forty for that matter. I am indeed grateful that I’m still here, even with the health issues that I’m still up against. Yet in the back of my mind, there’s still this feeling that I’m racing against the clock. It’s not something that overwhelms me, or occupies my conscious thinking on a day-to-day basis, but I know it’s there. I think that it is the thing that keeps propelling me forward, that still makes me want to accomplish more.

I don’t necessarily have an actual bucket list – though I’m not fond of the term – but I have a sort of unofficial group of things I want to get done. First on that list is getting a kidney. It really is the key to being able to accomplish a lot of the other things, unencumbered by the need to be tied to a machine three days a week.

So I go on, headlong, into decade number seven.

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