The New 60!

My oldest son turns 30 today. I’m worried for him, because birthday angst might be a genetic thing. I hated my 30th birthday. For whatever reason, it has been the only birthday that has truly depressed me – so far. I wish a better day for my son.

I spent my 30th at the home of my former in-laws in Salt Lake City, where my family and I were visiting while in transit between Navy duty stations. We’d left the Philippines a couple of weeks before and were due to report to the Naval Academy a couple of weeks later. I was “in transit” in more ways than one. I felt like I was at a way station between my carefree youth and free care thanks to Medicare.

My dark mood on that November day in 1978 was waiting for me when I awakened. I overslept, probably due to a subconscious awareness of my inability, or at least my unwillingness, to face the pending transition. I woke up alone in a bedroom that wasn’t mine. The fact that I didn’t own a bedroom in SLC or anywhere else was part of the problem. At 30, it’s possible to feel like life is half over and one should have their own bedroom midway through the backstretch in their run for the roses.

When I went upstairs to join the family, they were in the midst of making a nice breakfast for me. A special place had been set for me at the table – with a rocking chair, pillow and blanket ready at the head of the table. I recall that there was a bottle of Geritol sitting beside the orange juice. Everyone was getting a real kick in the shorts about the setup. Said another way, everyone I loved was mocking me; I was awash in celebratory ridicule right out of the gate on this, my oh-so-special day. My mood darkened in the presence of their guffaws. I put on a brave face and acted like I enjoyed it; but my blatant lack of integrity on the issue only made matters worse.

That day left me wondering if the birthdays that herald the arrival of each new decade of life were the issue. Over the coming years I pondered the approach of my 40th birthday. But, turning 40 was cool. I had always wondered what I’d be when I grew up and on that birthday I finally felt like I knew the answer to that wonder. I’d entered the mainstream. I didn’t feel in transit. After all, I owned my own bedroom; and, just outside that bedroom I had a swimming pool in a yard in California that had palm trees swaying in the breeze. Like those palm trees, I stood pretty tall in the breeze on my 40th.

But I got it in my head that surely the birthday angst was something that came along every other decade. I began to view 50 with quiet trepidation. Fifty couldn’t be good; I mean, how could 50 be anything other than not good? People tried to cheer me up by saying, “Hey, 50 is the new 30!” Great; I hated turning 30. I felt 50 when I turned 30; so I was seriously skeptical about feeling 30 when I turned 50. I would have felt a lot better if they’d said “50 is the new 40.” I would have settled for hearing that “50 is the new 48.”

Turning 50 proved to be the antithesis of turning 30. I loved it; it was great. It felt like 50 was the new 25! For some reason, when I turned 50 I felt liberated. I felt free of the need to prove myself to anyone, ever again. I had arrived. I had achieved my professional goals. I was happily married. My children were beginning to settle into their lives. I was satisfied. Even being in the midst of a family crisis, as my stepson battled leukemia, didn’t overshadow the day. Dan was nearing the end of his first round of chemotherapy, which we thought would be the last round; he was in remission and doing well. I was awash in hope.

Now, the specter of 60 looms on the horizon. It awaits my arrival. I’m in no hurry to get there. Sixty portends the arrival of the ends – the end of a career; the end of seeing kids finish school; the end of watching them get married (for the first time anyway). Sixty is the end of “middle age”; it’s the beginning of senior citizen discounts (I ignore the few that are offered to those over 55). No one feels like they reached their peak at 60 or beyond. Peaks are in the rearview mirror. Only valleys lie ahead. Valleys can be nice; they can have green pastures and clear streams in them; they can be peaceful places. But, one of those valleys has a shadow in it.

The angst is returning. People tell me that 60 is the new 40; but I fear that 60 is worse than that. I fear that it’s the new 30. I may not have mentioned it, but I really hated turning 30. I told my son yesterday that I’m concerned that 30, 60 and 90 are going to be the problem birthdays for me.

Oh, well … it is what it is; what will be, will be.

Happy birthday, son! Try not to dwell on any genetic angst I may have passed on to you. Try not to dwell on the thought that 30 is the new 60. Instead, just pull the blanket around your sore knees and enjoy your orange juice. Hopefully, your loved ones will have skipped the Geritol gag. Given our genetic makeup, it’s not all that funny, anyway.