Sixty-Two and Still Standing

(SBA) - Sixty-two. Just saying it out loud feels weird. I’ll be turning that number in less than a week, and I’m still not sure if I’m supposed to feel “seasoned,” “distinguished,” or just “tired.” Sixty-two is not a sexy number. Nobody ever says, “Man, I can’t wait until I hit sixty-two!” It’s not like twenty-one, when you get to legally order a drink, or sixty-five, when you finally qualify for Medicare and every pharmaceutical commercial suddenly makes sense. No, sixty-two just sits there awkwardly in the middle, like the middle child of birthdays. Important, but not celebrated. A milestone, but not one you can brag about.

And yet, here I am, staring down the big 6-2 with more humor than fear, because if I don’t laugh at this aging process, I’m going to cry. And at my age, crying leads to puffy eyes, clogged sinuses, and three days of explaining to people that no, I don’t have allergies, I was just “reflecting on life.”

Let’s start with the obvious, the body. Nobody warns you about how your body slowly becomes a full-time maintenance project. In your twenties, you could twist an ankle, shrug it off, and be back on the basketball court the next day. In your sixties, you twist an ankle and suddenly you’re Googling “best ankle braces for seniors” while calculating how many weeks it will take before you can walk without sounding like a horse clomping across the floor.

And the hair. Oh boy, the hair situation. Nobody told me that when the hair leaves your head, it doesn’t just disappear into the ether. No, it relocates. It migrates. It sets up camp in places you didn’t even know could grow hair. I’ve got rogue strands popping out of my ears like they’re trying to pick up satellite radio. My nose seems convinced it’s auditioning for a hedgerow. And don’t even get me started on the eyebrows. These things have developed personalities. I don’t have eyebrows anymore; I have two confused caterpillars fighting for dominance on my forehead.

And because trimming all this new, unwanted growth is now a weekly chore, I’ve invested in gadgets. Nose-hair trimmers, eyebrow combs, little scissors I’m terrified of sticking too close to my nostrils. I used to buy cologne, now I buy “personal grooming devices.” Nothing screams “sixty-two” like a guy with more trimmers than power tools.

Then there’s sleep. Ah, sweet, elusive sleep. I used to fall asleep like a rock and stay that way until morning. Now? Sleep is more of a suggestion than a guarantee. I’ll drift off, and then somewhere between dreams about fishing and remembering that I forgot to take the trash out, my bladder decides it’s time to stage an emergency evacuation. So up I get, fumbling in the dark, trying to find the bathroom without stubbing my toe on the dresser. If you’ve never stubbed your toe at two in the morning, let me tell you, it’s a religious experience. You don’t know prayer until you’re hopping on one foot in the dark, whispering every swear word you know, hoping you didn’t just break it.

And because getting older means you’re smart enough to avoid turning on the lights (because once you do, you’re awake for good), you shuffle through the shadows like a burglar in your own house. Sometimes I wonder if I should just install runway lights from the bed to the bathroom. Might save me from another ER visit.

Now, one of the unexpected joys of being sixty-two is that everyday objects take on new importance. For example, the Amazon box. At this age, the box is sometimes more exciting than what came inside it. Oh, look at this beauty—sturdy cardboard, barely a crease, strong flaps. This is a good box. A keeper. Not like the flimsy ones that collapse when you try to stack them. No, this one could hold Christmas decorations, old photos, or the growing collection of mismatched charging cables I refuse to throw away.

So I keep it. Because you never know when you’ll need a good box. My garage now looks like a recycling center that never actually recycles. I could probably build a fort out of all the Amazon boxes I’ve hoarded. And the worst part? I know I’m not alone. I’ve seen the look in other sixty-somethings’ eyes when they get a package. They’re not just thinking about the item—they’re sizing up the box. That’s when you know you’ve reached peak adulthood, when cardboard excites you.

Then there’s the doctor. Oh, the doctor visits. At sixty-two, going to the doctor is like spinning a roulette wheel. Will it be cholesterol today? Blood pressure? Maybe they’ll send me for another test, just to make sure my kidneys aren’t secretly plotting against me. I never know what I’m walking out with—sometimes it’s a new prescription, sometimes it’s a new “condition” I didn’t even know existed. “Well, Mr. Loftus, it looks like you have the beginnings of mild degenerative disc disease.” Oh, great. Add that to the bingo card.

I swear, doctors should hand out scorecards so you can keep track of all your diagnoses. By the time you’re in your sixties, you’re a walking alphabet soup of conditions. GERD, COPD, IBS. It’s like playing Scrabble with your insides. And the medications. Every doctor loves to add one more pill to the collection. I’ve got so many bottles now, I need a spreadsheet just to remember which ones I’ve taken. Breakfast is no longer cereal—it’s a buffet of vitamins, pills, and something that tastes vaguely like chalk but supposedly keeps my bones from crumbling.

And food. Oh boy, food. Remember when eating was simple? You were hungry, you ate, you felt good. Now, eating is basically a gamble. Every meal is a potential tripwire. Is this sandwich going to sit well? Will this chili come back to haunt me? Taco Bell? That’s not food anymore, that’s Russian roulette with hot sauce packets. My stomach has developed the sensitivity of a drama queen. Too spicy, and it’s a revolt. Too greasy, and I’m pacing the living room like a man possessed, clutching my chest, waiting for the Tums to kick in.

I’ve gotten so used to indigestion that I keep antacids in strategic locations, the car, the nightstand, the coat pocket. They’re like my backup singers, always there when I need them. At this point, Tums should just sponsor my life. “This episode of surviving sixty-two is brought to you by peppermint Tums—because you thought you could still eat nachos at 10 p.m.”

And while we’re on the subject of getting older, let’s talk about music. Once upon a time, I couldn’t imagine a car ride without blasting my favorite tunes. Now? Now I get in the car, and five minutes later I’m turning the volume down because it’s “too loud.” The same songs I used to love now sound like someone is trying to drill into my skull. I never thought I’d become one of those people who enjoys silence, but here we are. Silence is golden. It’s peaceful, it’s restorative, it’s… well, it’s also dangerous, because if it’s too quiet and too comfortable, I’ll fall asleep sitting upright like a grandpa at Thanksgiving dinner.

Here’s the kicker about turning sixty-two, you start to see the comedy in all of it. Life becomes less about pretending you’ve got it all together and more about laughing at the absurdities. Like the fact that I’ll spend twenty minutes organizing my pillbox for the week but can’t remember where I put my car keys. Or that I’ll save boxes for “future use” even though the only future use they’ll have is making my kids roll their eyes when they have to clean out the garage someday.

But you know what? There’s a kind of freedom in that. You stop sweating the small stuff because you’ve seen enough to know most of it really doesn’t matter. You’ve lived through fashion trends, diet fads, political cycles, and more “revolutionary” gadgets than you can count. You’ve watched technology go from cassette tapes to streaming, from landlines to smartphones, from “don’t sit too close to the TV, it’ll ruin your eyes” to “stare at this glowing screen for twelve hours a day.” And you survived it all.

Sixty-two is a comedy routine you didn’t sign up for but somehow got cast in. Some days you’re the star, some days you’re the punchline. But either way, you’re still in the show. And if you can laugh at yourself—at the midnight bathroom runs, the rebellious body hair, the glorious Amazon boxes—then you’re doing just fine.

So here’s to turning sixty-two. To the aches, the creaks, the mysterious new ailments. To the silence that soothes, the music that grates, the food that betrays, and the doctors who keep me guessing. To the boxes I’ll never throw away and the Tums I’ll never be without. Getting older may not be glamorous, but it sure is funny. And at this point in life, if I can laugh about it, I figure I’m winning.