55 IN A 65 ZONE

August is my birthday month. No, I’m not soliciting birthday gifts or anything else just yet because it’s not until the end of the month, on the 27th.

I grew up in the 60s and 70s and many of us from that era heard the mantra “Never trust anyone over 30.” Over and over and over. We were instructed to buck the system by the likes of Timothy Leary and Abbie Hoffman until, just like that, we turned thirty and became part of the system. So much for not trusting and all that crap. Turning thirty meant nothing to me. It was just a number.

Then came forty. Eh, it was just another number. Yeah, I felt a little older, but I was still young and active. I was a successful graphic artist and didn’t feel any older than when I turned thirty. Forty was no big deal.

Along came fifty and I knew my days were numbered. No, not in a life or death sense. As a graphic artist, I was aware of the up-and-coming designers that would usher in more contemporary ideas and do it for less money than I was making - not that I was getting stale at all. It’s simply the nature of the beast. I chose to ease myself away from the career I had chosen some 20-plus years earlier. I always wanted to write and thus began something completely new to do. Along came the Casey Anthony case and the rest is history. In any event, turning fifty didn’t make me feel old at all. Once again, it was just another number, but the cracks of age were beginning to show.

Out of the blue, I hit sixty. It wasn’t a huge hit, though. It was more like a rather strong gust of hot, dry air. Whoosh! But it didn’t blow me off my feet. By then, I had plenty of time to emotionally adjust to the physical maladies that struck in 2005. I was a diabetic with other medical problems that kept creeping up on me. They still do. So what! I handled everything and I’ve remained an optimist throughout. Until…

This month, I will hit a milestone and I’m reminded of it every day when the mail comes. Supplemental health insurance policies. Solicitors that starkly remind me I’m going to be 65-years-old.

SIXTY-FIVE!!!

My life is about to change forever. On the 27th of August, I’m officially old. On that date, I will have to act “grandpoppish” even though I’m not, technically, a grandfather.

On my birthday, I will have to change my wardrobe. I will go out and buy light colored polyester pants that come up to the bottom of my chest. An elastic stretch belt. Maybe suspenders. Nothing but white short-sleeved shirts. Slip-on shoes and Velcro sneakers. A Seersucker suit!

From that date on, I will have to act my age. Decrepit Dave. I will start hanging out on pigeon-infested park benches and in the mall. The one in front of the Everything But Water store. No, not really. Instead, I’ll be looking for my soulmate… a bunhead grandmother with gray hair; someone who wants to tell me about her grandchildren, now fully grown. The ones who stopped calling, except when Christmas and their birthdays come around.

Wait… I’m not ready for all that! There’s an adult community right around the corner. This is Florida, after all. I’m going to learn how to play outdoor shuffleboard. I’m going to build up my confidence and go there to look for a young and perky 55-year-old. Oh baby. That’s it.

I will feel young again! Maybe I shouldn’t toss out those Wranglers just yet…