I’m so old I remember when Paul McCartney’s “When I’m 64” was new music.
When cars used leaded gasoline. When every office stank of cigarette smoke. When, as a child, there were no Legos and there was no Minecraft and we played with Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs. When, as a manager, I had to carry a Metrocall “beeper” on my belt. (I remember that Brits unaccountably called their own pagers “bleepers.”)
After my kids grew up, I started to reflect frequently on the distortion of time, when passes faster with every year, because, I think, a year is more of a lifetime when you are five than when you are 55. My reflections on this are affected by the fact that my father is still alive at 99, so to me 65 is both old and very, very young.
It helps to be in reasonably good health, thanks to pills, a good mental attitude, an increasing willingness to eat spinach and broccoli, and that fact that I never smoked. Yet I am finally starting to slow down a little – a surprisingly recent development, in the past three or four years. It’s not a big deal. My chosen trade requires no heavy lifting.
No point in retiring. I still like my job and I’m still trying to improve. It’s scary how easy it is to make mistakes. I still make ’em. I try not to. Listeners and viewers help me out. And I’m still learning. There’s always more to learn about everything. Continuously trying to do a better job makes the future promising, though it also makes looking back embarrassing!
You have my grateful thanks for watching “Sunrise” and putting up with all my faults. I know I’m not the young, slim pretty boy you might prefer, but I’m real, and if you meet me on the street I’ll be just the same, if a little grumpier! Hey, I’m 65, I’m entitled!