I turned sixty the other day. That's S-I-X-T-Y, aka LX, aka L'il Five Duzzy.
How the hell did that happen? I feel like teenager, for heaven's sake (Obviously, I don't talk like one). I still even get zits—just, you know, not on my face.
Like some of us, 60 is an age I've spent the bulk of my life believing isn't just old—it's damn old. And if you're a fellow sexagenarian (that's an etymological moniker, not a condition that requires bi-weekly cognitive behavioral therapy), tidbits like these may exacerbate your angst:
1) You were born less than 20 years after the end of World War II. At the time, the average-aged war vet hadn't hit 40 yet.
2) You've seen 12 presidents, six moon landings, two Darrens and one shark jump.
3) You've been alive for 24.3% of our nation's history. That one blows my mind.
While I'm on the subject, here's to democracy and the continued health of the great American experiment. In my opinion, our republic is teetering more precariously than any time since the 1940s. The Big Lie has legs and there's an ugly, violent movement that wants nothing more than to see the realization a real-life Gilead.
During my younger years, 60 seemed ridiculously ancient. Ten-year-old Tim would've pegged Gus the Fireman from Leave It to Beaver as somewhere around that age:
Or Chef Boyardee:
Maybe even Colonel Sanders:
I figured Santa must be somewhere in the neighborhood of 60, wearing his puffy, gin-blossomed greatcoat of comorbidities like a drunken gambler playing with house money:
Jokes aside, this birthday has left me feeling more emotional than past years, more introspective than times of yore when I was springier of chicken. I think a lot of it had to do with my high school reunion. The 40-year was supposed to take place last summer, yet was postponed along with billions of other events until 2022 due to that punk-ass scourge we've all been dealing with.
I understand that high school reunions aren't everyone's cup of Rainer, but I've always enjoyed attending and I was really looking forward to this one. In the weeks leading up to the party, several classmates experienced life-changing tragedies, compounding my desire to just check in with people, to take a day to celebrate our childhood connections. Nothing warms my crusty old heart like reliving the heaven on earth that is hamburger gravy over whipped potatoes with someone who can relate.
A week-and-a-half before the reunion, I came down with the aforementioned punk-ass virus. It was my turn to understand first-hand that the shit is serious business, and that I'd have a ten-day period to get over the symptoms, test negative, wait 48 hours and test negative again. It was my sole path toward engaging in any hamburger gravy talk.
During the initial three or four days, this seemed very unlikely. My head pounded and I couldn't remember that kind of throat burning since my tonsils were carved out in the '60s. I have asthma, so I was fortunate enough to receive a prescription of Paxlovid. It's an antiviral therapeutic and I'll be dipped in corn yogurt if it isn't the most amazing pharmaceutical I've ever taken (well, top five, anyway). After five days I was symptom free, and after ten I'd had two negative tests and no rebound infection. Hamburger gravy was on!
At that point, I was elated just to be feeling better, and the reunion was great. There's something about being around people who accompanied me through my most exciting, uncertain, coming-of-age years that just can't be matched. I'm so grateful to be reminded of this every ten years.
Our brains were indeed offline back in those days—but at least they were offline together.
