on being sixty, one week in

today I was relaxing at home in the afternoon, the cat sleeping on my lap I was paying little attention to the television in the corner,  Countdown, how I love word puzzles, was halfway through when I switched on.  Who can resist a conundrum?  So, there I am, as my lovely daughter pops into the living room.  ‘Oh mother, you sure are being sixty’ she laughed.

To be honest I was a bit shocked.  Yes, I guess I was fulfilling a certain stereotype this afternoon, but the first week of this decade has been full on.  Actually in the last eight or so days  I have done at lot of stuff.

I have spoken to a crowd of 200 plus footie fans and got a huge cheer, I have played board games late into the night with teenagers, I have danced at my own birthday party.  I have walked 51,000 steps, some up very steep hills in a forest, despite having two days on the couch due to feeling poorly.  I have been on a demo in my home town,  and walked the streets with hot chocolate and met loads of new young people, in one of my new jobs.

This past week I have also recorded a pretty cool interview for local radio, packed loads of donations ready for sending out to refugees, commissioned web designers for an amazing new fund raising project – so exciting can’t wait to tell all, watched The Lady Vanishes (such a good film), spoon fed our ridiculously old cat, and discovered Pink Dog gin.

So, being sixty, means I can in essence do what I fancy.  I can catnap with the family pet while pretending to solve anagrams, I can march in the street in solidarity with others.  I can shout loud when needed and I can pretty much be myself.

I guess what I am saying is that I am comfortable in my skin.  My daughter can laugh out loud, she wasn’t being unkind, because I know she is as proud of me as I am of her.   There is much to be said about growing older, sixty is not the new forty, but it is suiting me very well so far.

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