At twenty I attacked my life dreams the way I had pounced on Christmas presents just a few years earlier. The future was forever.
By thirty I had created a family, a strong identity and an impressive professional reputation. The world was my oyster.
Turning forty brought me the good-natured joshing of my many friends, family and colleagues who had come to admire and respect me. I was at the top of my game.
Fifty was a bit daunting. My father died. My kids were grown and gone. Friends of my youth were away on their own adventures. Work was more of a challenge but life, overall, was comfortable and easy.
Time remained, I told myself, to do things.
Now that I’m pushing sixty I find myself struggling to remain relevant. In my own mind, at least.
For the first time in my long life, I’m neither the rising star nor the top dog. I’ve started the inevitable, slow slide.
And I begin to wonder, for the first time ever, how much time I have left.
There. I’ve said it aloud.
One phase of life ends and another begins. I get it. I always knew it was coming.But I’m still not quite ready.