I’m a child of the 60’s – really, I was a child. Born in 1960, I think some of the peace, love, rock n’ roll dust must have sprinkled on me. But do the math…I’m 60 this year and a little overwhelmed by the number! I wasn’t planning to party, but I sure never imagined the quarantine scenario to start my sixth decade.

In the spirit of the Covid-19 pandemic, my dear friends sang from my driveway after delivering treats to my door. My kids sent the traditional Moose Munch popcorn collection – family tradition, that is. They also agreed to a video call. Pro-tip: when you can use both a birthday and Mother’s Day as leverage, do it. It was a beautiful, memorable day.

I don’t feel 60. I don’t know what 60 is supposed to feel like, but how can I have been alive six decades? It sounds a bit old to me, though my definition of “old” has certainly changed as the hill got closer. That hill. I have friends much older, friends much younger, and I tend to think of us all as being around the same age. They generally humor me. And if I ever stop learning from all of them, I’ll be worried.

I’m both amused and slightly horrified that documentaries about the activism that was taking place in my teen years are now considered historical films. Gloria Steinem is still f’ing relevant! Bands and musicians who were the soundtrack of those years are showing up in memoirs and movies, or in some cases, taking farewell tours. Hello, Elton John.

I was happy to turn 30, thinking people would take me more seriously. I had a pretty grown-up job, and 30 gave me gravitas, at least in my mind. Life was too busy to think much about 40. I was in full stride professionally and had two young children.

50 was harder, because it suddenly became clear I was more than half-way, on the down side of the hill. I started coloring my naturally gray hair in a poor attempt to reflect the “middle” of middle age; it wasn’t worth the money or hassle. My 50s brought challenges (https://wordsofwomen.life/what-happened-at-50/) but also new satisfaction. Hard-earned wisdom and resilience came into play. My confidence grew along with comfort in my own skin; I learned to say “no.” I faced down some fears and watched my children mature, graduate from college, take flight.

It all happened fast. Staring 60 in the face, I see the wrinkles, baggy eyes, broken blood vessels when I accidentally smack my arm against a cabinet. (Because we’re in a pandemic, I also see wild hair that is well past its cut date.) I see blue eyes that have weathered joy and sorrow, strong legs that carry me with purpose and not panic, hands that have cradled babies and typed thousands of words. I see a heart that has broken and grown larger.

My house is full of books, pictures, paintings, and the stuff of 60 years. More importantly, my life is full of priceless family, friendships, memories, and dreams.

I guess that’s what 60 should feel like – accepting all the hills and valleys and keeping it in perspective. Learning the lessons and moving on. If we’re lucky, sharing them. I’m grateful for so very much. Bring on the metaphorical medal for 60. (Because I’m sure as hell not running an actual marathon to get one.) I’ll own it. Because really, what else is there?