"Sixty is different," he said, a certain sadness and touch of fear in his eyes. "It's different."
I thought, Phil, hey, 60 is just another number. I was fine when I hit 50, no big deal. How tough can 60 be?
Pretty tough, as it turns out.
I've thought more about my own mortality since I turned 60 than at any other time of my life. I mean really thought about it.
- Am I ready to die if I go sooner rather than later?
- No, I'm really not ready.
- I guess I could be ready.
- Hell, no, I ain't ready!
- How do I get ready?
- What is ready?
- Maybe I'm ready, I don't know.
- How is anyone ever ready?
I've entered the mortality years, doing more looking back than looking ahead.
I've entered the been there, time to let someone else do that years.
I've entered the what's next years, the time when I'm not yet ready to retire but am thinking solidly and clearly about what I want to do with my remaining time.
Is it too late to be a David McCullough wannabe? I hope not.
It's certainly too late to get much better at golf, though I do think pushing my handicap down into the high teens is possible.
I just want have enough time, just enough.
Enough to have some fun without having to have to work.
Just enough time, that's all.
Phil, my friend, now I understand. The 60s really are different. Mortality different.
I don't know what the rest of the 60s will bring, or God willing the 70s and beyond, but I'd like to find out.
I would very much like to find out.