As I find myself navigating this 64th year, I’ve been reflecting on the ways we adapt to life’s changes, whether it’s the small adjustments of our daily routines or the bigger shifts that come with time. There’s a fair bit of humor in it all, but even more humility...and if you listen closely, maybe a bit of a song—something familiar, with a tune that lingers.
Send me an email, drop me a text,
Saying what you think,
Specify exactly what you wish to share,
Forever yours, losing my hair.
Leave me a note, an icon heart,
Yours forever more,
Will you still want me, will you still haunt me,
When I’m sixty-four?
I knew this day would come, and—trite but true—it’s arrived faster than I ever expected. My 64th year around the sun has been a good one. The voice inside my head hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. There’s always been this older spirit in me, sitting back, waiting patiently for my physical age to catch up so we can finally be on the same page. It’s got a kind of steady, ageless wisdom that’s guided me more times than I can count—even when I’ve felt out of step with the world around me, or when I’ve still managed to do the same dumb things I did decades ago.
Mike, being 16 years older, has never felt like a gap. If anything, I’m probably the one trying to catch up. He’s always had this youthful spirit—a lightness, a joy—and I’ve always appreciated having him around because he kept me young. In a way, he’s been the secret ingredient, adding a sense of vitality to my life that I might have missed on my own. And sure, there are times I worry I’ve been a bit of a burden, dragging him into my introspective rabbit holes, but he’s got a way of pulling us both out. We balance each other out, and maybe that’s the magic of it.
Each day has its own rhythm—dog walks, household chores, and bursts of creativity on my computer or out in the garden. I’m still holding out hope for a small art shed to come to life, a dream I’ve been nurturing for over 20 years as part of my retirement plan. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m doing my best to stay fit, fighting the inevitable loss of elastic skin and joint flexibility, and trying to ignore the snap, crackle, and pop of my knees when I make even the simplest movements. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a kid’s cereal commercial.
The plan is straightforward: eat more vegetables, stay active, and get plenty of rest—basically all the things our moms have been telling us since we were kids. I’ve added a weekly Pilates session to the mix, part of what I’ve come to call my Wonderful Wednesdays. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see if it might help with flexibility and balance, and so far, it’s been a little oasis in the middle of my week.
A typical Pilates day is like a full-body reboot, mostly focusing on everything from the lower back down. I don’t know how she does it, but my instructor has this sharp eye—like Columbo, with that squint of his, catching every little thing even when you think he’s not paying attention. She doesn’t miss a trick. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a symmetrical bone in my body. One side is always shorter, tighter, weaker—you name it. So, most of our sessions are about trying to get all that back in line. Hips get isolated, tibias are realigned, and this past week, we even worked on my feet.
Sometimes I show up with my grip socks inside out, which always brings a happy chuckle from my trainer. It’s a small thing, but it sets the tone—reminding me not to take myself too seriously, even when I’m wobbling my way through the exercises.
At one point, she looked down and said, “Your plantar surfaces aren’t really responding. Try moving your feet like you’re prancing.”
I paused, giving her a look. “Prancing?” I said. “I’ve spent most of my life trying not to prance, so this is new territory.”
She just laughed and said, “Well, today’s the day.”
By the end of the session, I’m usually a mix of relief and quiet triumph—relieved that I’ve survived another round, and triumphant that maybe, just maybe, I’m a little more flexible than I was last week. It’s not always graceful, but that’s okay. If I’ve learned anything in my 64 years, it’s that you don’t have to be perfect, just willing to show up, try, and laugh at yourself along the way.
So, I’ll keep walking the dog, tending to the garden, and doing my best to eat my vegetables. I’ll keep showing up on those Wonderful Wednesdays, letting my instructor play Columbo while I try to prance—even though there’s still that voice in my head reminding me not to. And who knows—maybe one day that little art shed will finally come to life, and I’ll be sitting there, surrounded by paints and plants, grateful for every snap, crackle, and pop that’s gotten me this far.
If there’s one thing this older spirit has taught me, it’s that life doesn’t need to be flawless to be fulfilling. It just needs to be lived—embracing the quirks, the creaks, and even the occasional inside-out sock along the way. Because in the end, it’s those imperfect, awkward, and quietly tender moments that make this journey truly worth every step.