I knew it was coming, but I just spaced the fact that two days ago was exactly when I hit being ten years older than my father was when he died. He was approximately two months shy of his 60th birthday and I’m a little less than two months shy of my 70th.
Shortly after his death, I was certain 59 would be my end as well, because I’d heard all my life how I was exactly like him and, from all appearances – including my personality – that seemed true. Fortunately for me, as time went by I came to see ways in which I was far more like my maternal grandfather.
Now . . . ten years after I passed that admittedly self-imposed, and somewhat neurotic, deadline, I have yet to have one heart attack, let alone three like my father. I’m lighter and in better shape than I’ve been in probably 40 years (certainly 30, as my metabolism made a noticeable change when I turned 40). I feel great . . . for the most part. I am, after all, almost 70 years old and there are some inevitable consequences of all that mileage, but I’m looking forward to the next decade or two. Maybe three if I’m lucky and I continue taking care of myself. My greatest fear, I guess, is that I’ll reach a point where I just won’t give a shit any longer. Although it does cross my mind occasionally, I’m not too worried about it. Life is good.