Asking for Ten More Springs
The Impetus Of Seeing The Finish Line
Turning 50 years old was something!
Half a century. A big deal. What other number in adult life could be as dramatic?
I guess 100—but then mostly for the onlookers, in awe—quite often at the wrinkled subject whose gaze has almost lost its object.
That was 20 years ago.
Then, the birthday celebrations for 55 and 60 were just two more notches.
The reality of turning 65 arrived a few months belated for me—with a deafening howl—as I stepped off a bus and ruptured my Achilles tendon.
The charmed life of thus-far no really serious injuries came to a halt. Consequences arrived, insisting adamantly that aging was a real thing.
Months of stabilization boot, crutches, cane—and people getting up to let the old guy have a seat on the bus.
Minor compensation arrived in the form of my now being eligible for senior citizen discounts on a variety of goods and services. Hooray for the half-price subway/bus card!
“Old age is life’s parody.” — Simone de Beauvoir
