Apparently Age is Just a Number

I had a birthday in January and since then, I’ve been bemoaning the fact that I am 69 years old.

Where the heck has the time gone? This just can’t be.

I was out with some friends Wednesday night, and repeated my complaint to them. “I can’t believe I am 69,” I said, or something to that effect. As my friends are all older than 69, they were not full of much sympathy and couldn’t see what the big deal could be.

But to me, if just seems crazy that I could be 69.

Last night, I took this problem to bed with me and was tossing and turning over the dilemma of somehow now being 69, when I got out my mental calculator, a device not in much use anymore since the advent of all the mechanical and digital ones at my fingertips. I took this year, 2019, and subtracted the year of my birth, 1951, and came up with 68.

I almost flew right out of bed at the realization that I am actually one year younger than I thought I was. What an amazing relief.

But it left me wondering what other delusions I might be operating under. I have a feeling there might be a few.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.