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Running into 60 with lots of help
We’ve spent 60 years listening to other people. Maybe this is the decade where we listen more to ourselves?
Last summer, I posted a few pictures of me running shirtless (like the one above) on my social accounts. I will be the first to admit that it was blatantly narcissistic, vain, and self-absorbed; however, my warped reasoning was that I would turn 60 the following summer, when my body would magically fall apart. I feared that I’d need to run in a caftan lest a passerby say, “Look at that old man running without a shirt.”
If you were born in 1964, like me, you are the last of the baby boomers, and this year we will turn 60 with the only solace, perhaps, that we are still referred to as “babies.”
Some of us are in angst about entering our seventh decade this year. Others have a little trepidation, and the rest couldn't care less – age is just a number. I suppose I’m 20 percent anxious, 40 percent indifferent, and 40 percent happy about turning the big 6-0.
In 2014 I presumed as I had since I was 12, that I would die at 50 like my father. For 38 years, I assumed I’d meet the same fate. I lived a “you only live once” life, drinking, carousing, not saving any money, with total disregard for the consequences of a future. When I turned 40 in 2004, it was a “ten years to live” celebration. Likewise, the countdown continued at 45, 46, 47, 48, and 49.
When 50 came and went, I was at a loss as to why I was still here, and I began to lose it.
I sunk into a deep, debilitating depression that spanned most of my 50s. In essence, all the growing up and dealing with issues from my past were condensed and processed in the years when I should have been planning for my retirement. My 50s were a living hell.
Many of us might not be so optimistic about entering our 60s, because it includes a curtain-calling 65, a fateful number that was always a lifetime away. Now, suddenly, we’re only five years from an age where you supposedly retire, go on social security, and slip away from professional relevance.
At least that’s what we’ve been told or seen through our lives. We’ve watched our grandparents and then parents turn 65, and for many of us, we have seen them age — quickly. We went from talking to them about our kids to talking to them about their aches, pains, and ailments.
We can be heartened by the fact that we live in an era where many have blown past 60 and remain relevant into their 70s and even 80s. Look at Cher, who at 77, had a dancing Christmas hit this past holiday with “DJ Play a Christmas Song.” Madonna still tours at 65. There are the ageless octogenarians Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger. Say what you want about President Joe Biden, but he’s in remarkable shape at 81.
Some of us have parents who are vital and active in their 80s and 90s. But we look back to their parents, our grandparents, who looked like…well, grandparents at 60. They were gray, dour, and sedentary.
When Norman Lear passed last month, the All in the Family character Archie Bunker showed up in the remembrances about Lear who died at 101, and who was still active and working. What was fascinating to me was that Archie was in his 40s and 50s during the run of the show in the 1970s – he didn’t turn 50 until season four. Archie looked like he was in his late 60s and acted less than youthful.
I think that’s one thing that has now completely passed us by — our youth. As we matured, we still liked to think of our 40s as the new 30s, and 50s, as the new 40s; yet, saying 60 is the new 50 just doesn’t seem to cut it. Granted, we can look and act younger than Archie did, but even the proudest among us know we’ve lost a step since 50.
And that brings me back to my shirtless running pictures. My body has changed since I turned 50. That’s undeniable. Changes in our physiology, particularly if you work out as hard as I do, are hard to swallow. I put in the time and effort, but I don’t look like I’m 40 anymore – yet do I look good for 60? That's subjective I suppose. The guys in my gym, who are half my age, say I run circles around them when I’m working out. But when they leave, I see young men in their prime — the way I used to look.
All of us rely on glasses to read at this point – except me. I still have a 20/20 vision. But what I’ve lost -- considerably -- is my hearing. It was never good to begin with, but these last 10 years have seen me go from one hearing aid to two inserted in both ears, to two exteriors at maximum strength noticeable behind my ears. I should imagine that my 60s will see my hearing diminish even further.
I have an incredible memory. I can still remember my closest friends’ phone numbers from high school and their birthdays. I can still spout out baseball trivia statistics – except, now, it takes me more time to recall them. When I see an actor in a film that I recognize, I turn to Google because the effort to remember who they are is just too much.
Besides losing a bit of our ability to remember, half a step in our stride, and the shape of our youthful bodies, we are reminded of the onslaught of 60 when we look in our mirrors each day. We are used to seeing ourselves, but we aren’t seeing what people who look at us see.
This is particularly galling when we see an old photograph of ourselves, and we’re smacked with the harsh realization that that photo looks nothing like our 60-year-old selves.
When chest hairs started to turn gray, I shaved them off, and still do. I’ll never grow a beard or have a goatee because it would be gray. When the gray started peeking out from the top of my head in 2023, I found a hair dye that doesn’t scream “hair dye.” Taking nothing for granted, I’m so lucky to still have a full head of hair. And I want to keep that hair, so I’ve succumbed to hair growth serum on my hairline.
After the plucking, I put the trifecta of toner, anti-aging cream, and moisturizer on my face. I put the eye cream on, and I surmise how many weeks I have until I need more Botox. I used to leave the house in 10 minutes, shower, shave, and comb my hair. Now, every day is akin to a spa day.
I know some are reading this and saying, “What a prima Donna,” or “Wait until you turn 70.” I fully admit to being vain and understand that I will be lucky to reach 70, and even 80. That’s a valiant achievement.
For a guy who thought he’d be six feet under at 50, and then wrestled with depression, suicide, and alcohol abuse for the last 10 years, I can honestly say that I’m happy to be turning 60. I’m entering this new decade with a new self-confidence, appreciation for life, and sobriety.
Those of us who are the last of the baby boomers turning 60 this year will approach it in myriad ways. Some are letting their hair go gray. Some are wearing the lines on their faces as badges of honor. Some are living day-by-day and come what may. Yet we can all agree on how quickly 2024 arrived. This year always seemed so far, far away, like flying cars that we grew up watching on The Jetsons. Now, the only things flying by us are the years we’ve lived and our youth.
I realize the ridiculousness with my borderline obsession of looking young, but in my defense, I was an emotional wreck in my 50s, so I want to make the best of the decade to come. Why shouldn’t we be able to do what makes us happy? We’ve spent 60 years listening to other people. Maybe this is the era where we listen more to ourselves?
If we squint just a little, we can make 60 the new 50, and stretch our youth as long as we can. Many of us came of age with the Alphaville song, "Forever Young" that includes one lyric that stands out, “Youth is like diamonds in the sun, and diamonds last forever.”
I’ll turn 60 on June 12. My hope is that it’s a warm, sunny day, and that I can proudly whip off my shirt and take a long run. I might even post a picture of it on Instagram, provided there are no errant ear, nose or eyebrow hairs, my coif is sufficiently dyed, and my Botox has been refreshed.
Happy New Year, and to all my fellow, soon-to-be sexagenarians, happy birthday!
John Casey is a senior editor at The Advocate.
Views expressed in The Advocate’s opinion articles are those of the writers and do not necessarily represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride.
