I’m 65. Funny, it doesn’t feel much different than 64. And even under the coronavirus (or coybote virus, as Lambeau sees it) restrictions, it won’t be different than any other birthday. The BaldMan made my birthday dinner on Sunday. (Scampi, if you are interested.) Since his birthday is at the end of the week, and our anniversary is next month, we usually combine the three and do a big fancy dinner out at some point in the rough time frame of all three. So, that will happen, if a little delayed this year. So, no, not much different.
Do I feel older? Well, sure, in some ways. My knees remind me quite often that I am not a young’un any more. I let the hair go gray a couple years back. I don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to. But that’s all just outside stuff. I don’t feel like I’m 65. I mean, not that I know what that should feel like, since I have never been this age before. Nor am I likely to again. I am lucky in that I can still do pretty much anything I want to. Oh, maybe a bit more slowly and with a bit more caution, but still. My mind is still functioning at least as well as it ever did. I can get around just fine. So, all in all, I have to say that at the very least, I don’t feel “old”. I think this says it all:
Anyway, I have stuff to do. At home and staying away from the rest of the world. Another year gone by. Kind of a weird one in many ways, but hey, we made it this far, right? We keep moving on. It’s the only way.