71

It's not as if turning 71 is a milestone birthday, but I do think every year you take in your 70s, at this point and almost by definition, is a milestone.

I turned 71 yesterday – Lincoln's birthday – so all these thoughts about aging come rushing pell-mell into my brain. I think it's probably a natural thought process for us. I had this conversation with one of my septuagenarian friends the other day and we both agreed that – actuarially speaking, anyway – we are most likely in our decade of death.

So there's that.

It can be a time for review, to see if we've reached any of our life goals over the previous 70 years. And I have to say, I feel pretty good about that. I've never been arrested. I think I've helped people – some people, anyway – when they've needed it. I think I've been a good friend, son, brother and husband. I think I was a pretty decent journalist, which was my lifelong profession. Bear with me: This is now my It's a Wonderful Life moment.

I've been told that I don't look nor act my age, which kind of presumes we should know what people in their 70s should look and act like. But I'll take it as a compliment.

Although I have a countertop littered with various medication bottles, I've been reasonably healthy over the years. I acknowledge the medications probably help maintain that good health, but I also think genetics might be involved. Somehow I inherited the camouflage gene that disguises the way I should look and act at this age.

I work out at the YMCA four or five days a week, for two hours each session, which means, ultimately, most of my clothes still fit.

I think my mental health is OK, too. I read a lot, and I play computer puzzle-solving games, each activity designed to keep me active. There are those moments, though, when I can't find my car keys or where the heck did I put my glasses or my cell phone? As a writer, I occasionally find myself searching for the right word more often. I don't want to let my words get away from me.

I do have to say it does feel like I got here in a hurry, though, and I certainly didn't mean for that to happen. I was talking to my brother yesterday when he called to wish me a happy birthday. He's only a few years younger than I am – still in his 60s – but we were reminiscing about our childhoods. "You know," I said, "remember when we were kids and 70 sounded old?" 

It doesn't sound too old now.

Just think. Next year, when you read my blog about turning 72, it's because I've totally forgotten about the blog I wrote when I turned 71. 

Cool, huh?

 •   •   •

It's not often the Super Bowl falls on the same weekend as my birthday, but I guess I ought to throw my two cents out there.

I really don't have a dog in this fight, but I think I'm leaning toward the Bengals, 27-24.

It's been a spectacular couple of playoff weekends, so there's a part of me that is afraid this game, just by law of averages, could end up being a real dog. I hope it's not asking too much to see one more game decided in the final seconds.

We'll see.