When I turned 60, I thought I was going to die. Medically, there was nothing wrong with me. However, everywhere I looked, I was being warned about my increased chances for, well, everything. Apparently, simply being 60 — much like smoking, obesity, and drinking — is a risk factor.
Covid didn’t help. Throughout the pandemic, health officials warned older Americans to take extra precautions. Once the vaccines made it safe for most to go out into the world again, guess who was still at risk? Me and all the other babies born by 1960.
If the barrage of dire warnings wasn’t enough to make me look into my social security benefits, the media hit the final nail in the coffin. It stung when CNN anchor Don Lemon said on air that former South Carolina governor and presidential hopeful Nikki Haley was past her prime to run for office. When he went on to define a woman in her prime as someone in her 20s, 30s, and maybe 40s, I almost choked on my Metamucil.
Social media also does a particularly great job of making me feel like ancient history. My feed is frequently filled with young women killing it while looking flawless. They are fearlessly ditching good jobs to leap into never-heard-of-before careers like fertility forecasting and somatic therapy. These women are, somehow in their short time on the planet, experts. And they are more than willing to share their wisdom on podcasts and blogs I can subscribe to for $50 a year. Given their devotion to meditation and yoga, they are already fully self-actualized and have found the meaning of life.
Let me be clear. My angst about aging is not about vanity. I have been coloring my hair since my late 30s. My ever-increasing gray is hardly a sign that I am old. Plus, going to my colorist is one of life’s joys. I walk in looking dead and walk out feeling alive. I for sure have all the telltale signs of being in my 60s: sagging knees, neck fat, and age spots. But I have no plans for Botox or to go under the knife to deal with these unfortunate occurrences.
I want to embrace my age by marveling at the wisdom I have accumulated over the years and lean into the freedom of finally not caring about what others think of me. It’s truly one of the gifts of aging. I look back and appreciate all that I have accomplished: 35 years of happy marriage, beautiful twin daughters, many amazing friendships, a successful career as an advertising copywriter, and baking at my local homeless shelter. My gratitude doesn’t change the fact that I am still 60, still certifiably old according to the CDC, still on the back nine, as I once heard Katie Couric describe these years.
In recent years, the negativity surrounding aging overtook me. I started to psych myself out of life and became fearful of everything. I looked at the road ahead, and instead of seeing opportunity and adventure, I wondered if I would trip and fall. Was the end near? When film star Michelle Yeoh accepted her Academy Award for Everything Everywhere All at Once and declared, “Ladies, never let anyone tell you you are past your prime,” I felt like she was speaking directly to me.
On my 61st birthday, as I was wallowing in self-pity, I came up with a solution. (Actually, my husband came up with the idea, but I quickly adopted it as my own and am taking full credit. This will come as no surprise to him.) It’s really quite straightforward: Instead of counting forward, I am now counting backward.
Last year, when I should have turned 61, we celebrated my 59th birthday. Next year, I will be 58. In five years, 55. In 20 years, my 21-year-old niece and I will both be turning 41. How delightful. My husband found a younger woman without having to find a younger woman. Or learn how to use Tinder.
My new way of adding (or subtracting) the years puts me back in control of my life. If turning 60 says something about who I am and what I am capable of, then I say, “No thanks.” Instead of looking out at the world to understand what this new era means, I am looking within, just as I’ve always done.
Besides, does it really matter how old I am? The Mayo Clinic recommends starting mammograms at age 40 and colonoscopies at age 45. But after that, who cares? It makes no difference if I am 47, 52, or 63. Age is meaningless unless we assign it meaning.
I am not the first human to lie about her age. As Oscar Wilde said, “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that would tell one anything.” It’s often necessary for a woman to be less than truthful about her age to conform to society’s expectations of who and what she can be at various points in her life. A 50-year-old woman may fudge her age on a job application in tech so she won’t be overlooked for a position in a field typically thought of as a younger person’s domain. A 60-year-old woman may say she’s 50-something on a dating site just so she can meet men under 85.
What I am doing is something entirely different. I am not lying about my age to convince other people I am younger than I am. I am doing it to convince myself. So far, it’s working. My new accounting method has shifted my inner voice. I am no longer telling myself to slow down and take it easy. I am hitting the ground running without paying much attention to how many miles I have clocked on the pedometer.
Now that I am in my 50s, I have decided to start a new career. I am a writer. It’s a change I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but I always found reasons to put it on the back burner. I was too busy raising children. Or too intimidated. I am not going to lie and say it’s easy now that I am not thinking like an old fart.
It’s really hard to embark on something new at this point in life, but I keep reminding myself that it’s difficult to embark on something new at any point in life. When I began counting backward and decided to pursue writing, there were a plethora of people and programs out there to help me. Surprise! The younger people in the writing workshops I participate in are daunted by the very same things as me: Am I good enough? Will anyone care about what I have to say? Am I starting too late?
There are other goals I want to accomplish, like eating my way through Southeast Asia, learning how to finally speak Hebrew, and working on my sourdough bread technique. I have always wanted to open a bakery. Who knows? Maybe that’s in my future as well. I never thought I would be doing any of these things in my 60s. According to my new math, I was right.
Helene Rosenthal is a New York-based writer who has contributed to Kveller and NBC. Follow her on Instagram @bakesalenow.
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