This September 28, I will turn 60 years old.

Can I be frank about that? (Of course I can, it’s my column.) Sixty is freaking me out. Don’t get worried; I’m talking simmer, not boil; but the heat is on and I feel it.

Part of the reason that my reaction has taken me by surprise is that I faced 40 pretty well. I felt respected. I had just shed 70 pounds and had recently met my now-wife. Things were flowing along quite swimmingly way back then, thank you very much. When 50 came knocking, it set me back on my heels for, oh, about five minutes, but I rebounded well and quickly moved on.

Sixty however? Whoa-doggie! That’s a notion I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around. (Thank God I don’t have to wrap my body around it ‘coz it just ain’t that flexible anymore.)

I mean, six decades on planet Earth just seems, so, well – how do I phrase this diplomatically? Okay, forget subtlety, I’ll just lay it out there: Sixty seems “old.”

I apologize and no disrespect is intended if 60 is in your rear view mirror, and you’re now scornfully shaking your head (most likely hearing those cracking sounds in your neck) muttering, “Really Scott, sixty? Get over it!”

You’re right; sixty happens.

However, in my defense, it’s the oldest I’ve ever been and I am attempting to come to grips with it in a mature fashion; but it doesn’t help that Miriam-Webster’s medical dictionary defines “middle aged” as “the period of life from about 40 to about 60 years of age.” Yikes! I mean, what about all that “60 is the new 40” stuff? Moreover, by the very nature of the fact that I consider 40 to be “young;” doesn’t that validate my whole I-feel-old argument in the first place?

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