Just A Number

It always seems to hit me a few days before my next birthday.

Fifty-freaking-six?

That’s the new number in 48 hours, and of course, you always want to see the number get bigger, but honestly?

Fifty-freaking-six?

I have been blessed with a crazy memory. Go ahead and pick a golf hole from my last round. I can recall each shot.

I’ll do it for you:

Thirteen - par 5:

Long drive to the right side, inexplicably hit the 5-wood about 8 yards, then hit the 5-wood about 180 yards. Was 90 yards out and inexplicably hit a perfect 9-iron 110 yards. I used chippy to put it within a foot, tapped in for a bogie.

Should’ve parred it. Dumb. 3 great shots. 2 horrible ones and always good when I don’t have to stand over a putt. (Love you, Chippy).

Yet, I give you that little exercise to let you know that I can remember a lot! And when you’re fifty-freaking-six, you remember the great things...

...but the painful things too.

And the only thing that bugs me about having less days left than what I’ve already lived is that there’s so much more I’d like to do.

I’d like to see my kids being born again. I’d love to feel the excitement of buying our first home, or anticipating the arc of my career or my writing.

But that’s where the despair rushes in.

That stuff is behind us, and you worry and wonder about what lies ahead because I’m entering a phase of life that I’m not familiar with.

What will the next 20-30 years be like?

(And I’m not assuming that I’m entitled to that many days - just hopeful).

I watched a man, who had to be in his early 70’s, gathering carts in a Lowe’s parking lot. The man was wearing an apron. He was walking slowly, with a very heavy limp.

Forced to work to supplement his retirement? Or for healthcare?

Did he work all his life for that indignity?

It’s a potential reality for a whole bunch of senior citizens.

I’d rather not be forced to do that.

Then there’s the anxiety.

Loss sucks.

At fifty-freaking-six, I think about what the last leg of this trip will bring.

“Go ahead, I’m retired and you’re working,” An older gent said to me as we met at the convenience store door.

“Ahh, retired,” I said. “Sounds good about now. I’d golf a lot.”

“It’s overrated,” the man said. “I can’t golf every day because my body hurts too bad. Besides, all my friends are sick or dying.”

That one hurt!

But my Dad was about my age now when I asked him about aging.

“I still feel like I’m 18 in my mind,” he said.

I didn’t get that then.

I do now.

And each day is a gift, and stay in the moment, and growing older is a privilege...

...I know all that...

...but birthday blues are on me.

Happens every year.

Fifty-freaking-six damn times.