Before I got out of bed this morning, I tapped into my phone and listened to a young Paul McCartney sing, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” because, well, I am now. It’s a catchy song with a nice tune, and it paints a dreamy picture of old age. The balding, old man is puttering in the garden when he doesn’t have grandchildren on his knee. The old woman is knitting by the fire.
I don’t knit.
We do have plenty of grandchildren, and some of them are still young enough to sit upon our knees. Three of them, though, are about the same age the Beatles were when they recorded that song. Geez.
Some days I feel all sixty-four years. Especially if I want to do something like hang Christmas lights on the house or make my satellite television work.
Other days, I marvel at the freedom and satisfaction of life at this age. I may ache a little when I walk, but I can go anywhere I please! I’m not officially retired, but I am my own bossy-boss. Life is full, and rich, and satisfying. Marriage really has gotten better every year, and I’ve made my peace with carbohydrates. (They stay. Within reason.)
I think I still have plenty of time and energy to write and publish at least the twenty-five book ideas currently in my files. And, I’m certain and sure the Father of Lights – in whom there is no shadow of changing- has many things yet for me to do on the earth. So, happy birthday to me. Thank you, Sir Paul, for the sweet, little song.
Now, will someone please write, “When I’m Ninety-Four”? That is my next goal.