You say it’s your birthday.
It’s my birthday too, yeah. –Lennon and McCartney
Tomorrow I begin my sixty-first year of life. To celebrate I changed my Facebook picture (My wife didn’t like the selfie with soul patch and sunglasses. She said I needed a picture that made me look mature and dignified. A friend said the old picture made me look like the dead guy in the movie Weekend at Bernie’s; it was actually the look I was going for.)
I’m sure people are going to ask me how it feels to be sixty. It doesn’t feel much different than fifty-nine years three hundred sixty-four days felt. Mentally I feel like I’m forty-seven years three months and 23 days old—twenty-two days if everything is going particularly good. There’s an old saying, You’re only young once, but you can be immature forever. Mentally I’m sure that’s me, but the body is starting to go. It takes me longer and longer to recuperate and muscle soreness that went away in a day or two now takes a week.
In 1965 I turned twelve. That was the year Jack Weinberg famously said, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” I have now been over thirty as long as I was under thirty, and I don’t trust myself, but I didn’t trust me much when I was under thirty either–there are some people you have to keep an eye on regardless of age, and I’m one of them. I never want to believe I think differently than I did when I was young, but I know I do. I often look at young people with their cartoon-colored hair the same way my dad looked at my long hair and bell-bottomed jeans. In the long run it was just hair then and it’s just hair now, but some of those body piercing have got to hurt like heck.
So I’ve changed my picture on Facebook. I now look as mature and dignified as anyone can look in a suit coat, tie and no pants or underwear.