It was not unexpected.
I always knew it would someday arrive knocking at my door. I asked myself, “How could 61 years have gone by so fast?” Now I hear, not a pleasant tapping, but a clenched fist banging at my door. It’s here. Open the door and face it.
You are 62 years old. Suddenly, the word “old” sounds more like “ancient”—as in crumbling.
Growing up, I thought of middle age as anyone older than 50. If 50 is middle age, then most people would live to be 100. Not one of my relatives has lived to be 100. Several close family members could not remember much past their 80th year. So now I am forced to rethink my overall game plan. If my quality life expectancy is somewhere near 80, then halftime would occur at around 40 years old.
First Quarter: Zero to 20. I had a pre-game advantage when I won the coin toss, with two wonderful, loving parents and a carefree early childhood. My teen years were spent learning the rules of the game, getting to know my strengths and weaknesses, picking my life’s work position, and deciding on whose team I wanted to play.
Second Quarter: Twenty to 40. Twenty to 30 represented a stimulating exploration of values and first commitments. By 30, I had experienced a major injury to my spirit and planned future. It was a tackle I never saw coming. I picked myself up, dusted off, and headed back into the game with a full head of steam and a virgin head of hair. I moved to an unfamiliar town and welcomed some new players on my team. It was a major trade.
Halftime: At halftime, around my 40th birthday, I took an extended rest period and hoped to enter the second half with a renewed spirit and different strategy. Retirement felt an eternity away, and I had an unquenchable desire to travel now.
Third Quarter: Forty to 60. My halftime became a bit extended when I was able to sit on the sidelines and savor the pleasures of the game. By my 50th birthday, my sideline bench shattered into pieces. I had no choice but to get back into the knock-down, drag-out bumps and twists of life’s game.
With some new plays, a great new teammate, and a little grass-stained good luck, by the time I turned 60, I was once again strong and healthy in mind, body, and spirit. I was in shape for the playoffs.
Fourth Quarter: Sixty to 80. The two years between my 60th birthday and now slipped by so rapidly, I hardly noticed. Then came the most recent deafening banging on my door, announcing, “You’re 62!” I should have at least received a polite two-year warning whistle.
A huge spike in births began in 1946 as our United States military troops returned home victorious from World War II and began to celebrate. There must have been a lot of completed passes during those celebrations, resulting in the pitter-pat march of some 75 million babies, who have been coined Baby Boomers. I am in the front scrimmage line of Boomers, who are striding toward the age of 62. The babies born between 1946 and 1964 are now trampling down the stadium front gates, sprinting after me toward the final goal posts.
In the late 1960s, when the first Baby Boomers were turning 20, some of us thought that we would most certainly be changing the world for the better. Now, I’m starting to question whether I did my part to make any difference in the world, and if there is still time to contribute something before the referee blows the final whistle.
I, for one, see the final or fourth quarter as one of challenge. I want to do many of the pleasurable things I have always put off until I had more time—which never seems to materialize. During the same time period, I would like to try to block a few tackles for those who are advancing behind me in the lineup. I desire to leave a footprint for a younger player to follow, who may otherwise veer out of bounds.
I would like to think that I could warn others not to repeat some of the game mistakes I have made over the years, including fumbles, stumbles, interceptions, and incomplete passes. Looking back, I see that, at times, I may have, on occasion, been running in the wrong direction.
The main thing I believe I need to do as I turn 62 is acknowledge that I am in the fourth quarter. The game clock continues to click. There are not many timeouts left. I need to get started now on setting my priorities before the game is called. If I am lucky, I will still be in the game to hear the two-minute warning.
I know full well that there will be no turning back or time for regrets once I cross through my team’s goal line. I don’t want to be forced to attempt to kick a field goal in the last few remaining seconds. I have time now to blaze a clear path, gain some positive yardage, and make a few tackles for others. When I have contributed to the best of my ability, I desire to catch a perfectly thrown long pass while charging through the goal posts to win the Super Bowl.
Overtime: My optimistic side tells me that the game could tie and go into overtime. For that, I would be thankful, but I am not betting on it. The blessing of healthy living for more than 80 years, I shall consider overtime.
Happy birthday, my fellow Boomers.
Susan K. Chapman is a Santa Maria resident who gives the other team a run for its money. Send comments to the executive editor at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 26 – Jul 3, 2008.