Thoughts on turning eighty

I remember when my mom turned eighty. Dad had passed on by then, and Mom had moved to Fort Worth. She was active—I think that was the year she went to China with a group of women from her bank—and she was classy, a lady’s lady. We were so proud of her that we gave a small party. I remember dancing in a circle in the large entryway of our house.

Two or three years later Mom began to have those TIAs or small strokes that eventually robbed her of all her grace and dignity and ladylike charm. By eighty-five she was in a nursing home—the old-fashioned kind, not today’s assisted living with its many activities and opportunities. And at eighty-seven, she died.

I have always been afraid of eighty. But now I’m three days into it, and nothing bad has happened. I take heart from my eighty-six-year-old brother. When I talked to him yesterday morning shortly after nine, he’d already been out to move the cows to another pasture. He’d just come in for a bite of breakfast before going to clear brush (okay he has a fancy tractor kind of thing that does most of the work, but still….) He’s got good genes, that guy does, and I hope I inherited them. The women on my father’s side of the family all lived into their nineties, a precedent I intend to follow.

If nothing dramatic has happened, I do notice recent changes, mostly in attitude. At eighty, I’m not going to do things I don’t want to, just to be polite. I’ve always been quite social, rarely turning down an invitation to go out for lunch or dinner. But lately I find myself a bit less interested—my days fall into a routine that I am sometimes reluctant to break. And some evenings, like tonight, a quiet hamburger at home and a book sounds just perfect. I think tonight I’m still in recovery from my wild weekend of celebration, but I’ve stayed home and worked, in my pajamas, for two days.

I am less ambitious than I have been. All my life I’ve looked to the next accomplishment. Sort of, if this is good, what’s better? What’s next? Publish one book and be satisfied? Never. Now I’ve written over a hundred is you count the wild variety, including some work-for-hire assignments. When I turned to writing mysteries, I told myself if I just got one published, I’d be happy. When Contract for Chaos comes out in September, I will have published fourteen mysteries.

But I’m drawing back a little, not so driven to publish two books a year, a little more reluctant to jump into another book that puzzles me halfway through. I want to write something I’m passionately interested in, and so I’m taking time to explore. I still want to be active in all my online writing groups, keep up my contacts. And I won’t quit expressing both joys and concerns on Facebook. In sum, I think I’m less driven. I don’t have the feeling that every minute has to be productive. Maybe I’m finally learning to sit back and smell the roses.

I read somewhere that people over fifty should spend more time in bed. Shoot! I’ve been doing that since I retired eight years ago. A nap is a must, and I don’t let much interrupt it. I’m fortunate that I’ve come roaring back after some health crises in 2017—okay, I can’t dance like my mom did on her eightieth birthday, but the walker doesn’t slow me down much. Maybe I should practice some dance steps with it.

It’s a good feeling. I think I like eighty just fine.