Seventy by Warren Bull
Image by Bailey Zindel from Upsplash
I was seventy when I woke up two and a half months ago. I still am. My ninety-five-year-old mother and I were talking the other day. She said, “It’s hard to believe you’re seventy.” I replied, “Tell me about it.”
Seventy is an interesting age. It has some unexpected twists. For example, I am one of those men who is not attracted to girls. No, not what you’re thinking. I’m not attracted to boys or men either. I’m not knocking that. It just doesn’t apply to me. I am attracted to women. I am now old enough that some of the women I’m attracted to are young enough to be my daughters. If I had any daughters. Which I don’t. Or my nieces. I have nieces. They are very pretty. We won’t get into that.
I’m seventy mostly because I have not died yet. I came pretty close three times, but it didn’t take. It might be genetics. My father flat-lined three times before was completely and sincerely death. After he flat-lined, I asked him if he saw a bright light and angels telling him he wasn’t ready to stop living yet. He said he didn’t see anything. He sounded disappointed.
Some people my age are old. They putter around. The highlight of their week is gardening, playing golf or playing bridge. They watch the evening news and get upset about young people. They do fewer and fewer things with fewer and fewer people. They dry up and contract like a sponge. I do not want to be a sponge.
When I turned sixty-five I started taking voice lessons. That was a great decision. Singing is one of a quite limited number of things I continue to improve at. Now that I am seventy, I need to add something to that list. I don’t know yet what it will be. When I find out, I’ll let you know.
