|My maternal grandfather and sister circa 1947.|
I’m 64 years old. When I was 55 or so years old, I glimpsed the top of my head and saw a bald spot. “Holy Moses I've got a bald spot?!" I inwardly exclaimed. I felt taken aback. Then once a jive kid calls me “grandpa!"
With this feedback I have begun to accept that I am a senior citizen.
I look at pictures in Facebook of friends who were grammar school classmates or pals from the late 60s, and they're seniors. I deduct I've got to be a senior as much as they are.
I walk on the treadmill at the gym. I ran on the treadmill 20 years ago.
I’m enjoying aspects of being a senior. I feel more “entitled” to speak my mind. I enjoy feeling more free to talk without worrying how other people might think or respond. My sense of humor has enlivened with the onset of years. I like that. I like the slower pace of being an older retired man. I can read a book at leisure, watch a movie, write an e-mail or talk on the phone with little outside pressure.
I’ve felt bad sometimes as I’ve entered the older years. I’ve felt I didn’t reach my potential. Although I still feel that way sometimes, I don’t as often because I realize the past is spilled milk. I look at my accomplishments in better light and see I made a beneficial difference.