"Will you still need me, will you still feed me......."

Back in the mid-60s when Paul McCartney wrote “When I’m 64,” I barely gave it a thought. It was a nice enough song, but one that definitely took a back seat to a host of other Beatles tunes and, for that matter, almost every other piece of music from that fabulous era. If I had given the thoughts behind this song even a nanosecond of my attention, I would have shrugged and concluded, “that’s for other folks.” And, of course, that would have been right…...in 1966. But, we’re not in 1966 anymore, are we? It’s 44 years later and now its lyrics and sentiments resonate a bit more personally than they did back then. Why? Because today I turn 64; that’s why.

Mostly, as we age, we become avid devotees of the “denial” approach to problem resolution as we still, despite all obvious indications, try to siphon off our latent fears that things are most certainly going downhill. What we hear is such tripe as, “60 is the new 40” and so on. Well, I hate to tell you, but 60 is still 60, and 64 is still 64, and until the human species can reliably extend life well into the hundreds, we are marching, unrelentingly, to our expiration dates.

Do I take solace that I can still run 6 miles or swim 60 laps? Of course. Do I try to tell myself that my parents were not remotely in the same shape I am for this age, and that bodes well for me? For sure. Am I convinced by all that? Sometimes… as when I indulge in one of my flights of denial and delude myself into thinking it so. Maybe it’s a pattern for baby boomers who have never taken well to notions that they are not special or cutting edge. We are immortal, no?

I do have to say that the image conjured up by Mr. McCartney of the person who is 64 is of someone who, in my own mind, is hopelessly infirm and tottering on helplessness. I know I don’t feel that way and look forward to many more adventures before I pack it in. But, I would be lying if I said that turning 64 isn’t a dour reminder of something I don’t want to confront. Am I drooling yet? No. Am I googling nursing homes? Hell no. But, there’s something so arbitrary about a number. Is 64 so wildly different than 63? Of course not. Damn you, Paul, for making me think it is.

Nap time anyone?