Getting started on that 61st year

Yes, Virginia, there is an Eric. He exists as certainly as jokes and puns and silliness exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its laughter and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Erics. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. Perhaps drearier.

(I may have stolen some of the previous paragraph from someplace, but you never know.)

Now that the burgers have been eaten, the Diet Coke poured and drunk, the streamers swept up and the house rebuilt, it's time to take a look at what's ahead for this newly ordained sexagenarian. Somewhat reminiscent of surfer dude Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, I don't need much to keep me happy and going. All Spicoli needed were "some tasty waves and a cool buzz." As long as I have a job that makes use of my brain (since that's the only part of me that still works), a place to call home, good people in my life and good food, I'll be fine. OK, and insulin, but everyone already knows that.

My dad's last birthday was his 60th. He lived for about eight-and-a-half months after celebrating that birthday. Sixty is too young to leave this world. But Dad had emphysema and that doesn't get better. He passed away just three days before my 29th birthday. It's a bit scary to realize that Dad wasn't much older than I am now when he died, especially considering that I too am fighting a chronic disease that doesn't get better. But I do have some control over diabetes, and taking charge of it will determine whether it "gets me" or I keep it at bay. So far, I'm winning that war.

But life marches on. Since I'm here, there are things to be done that are getting harder as time goes by. For instance, I used to grab the lawn mower, the shears, the Diana, the weed whacker and occasionally the pole saw, and take them to my front or back yard. I knocked down branches, grass, hedges, weeds, you name it. Perhaps one of the most difficult things for anyone to do is to admit that they need help. And I'm at that stage. Last year I fell while mowing the lawn. Isn't that what old people do?

I can sit and whine about how hard things are getting to be (OH BOO HOO HOO HOO!!1!) or I can attack it. All I can do is the best I can do. And that's what I aim to do.

There's a guy who lives nearby who's at least 70 from what I can tell. (Or maybe he's my age or younger and went to a lot of concerts in the '70s.) He's managed to put up some giant hedges around his back fence (most likely for privacy and to cut down on noise from the highway, railroad and our house), and he keeps his yard immaculate. I've never seen a gardener's truck at his place, so I assume he's doing it all. So with regard to yard work, I should strive to be like Mr Neighbor.

With regard to fun, I need to get out and get on those roller coasters. Sure, my body tells me that I'd better not and I should listen to it, but when you stop and think about it, how much harm can a speedy ride to great heights and twists and turns really cause? Take it as it comes, enjoy it while you're feeling up to it, but slow down when you need to. I've pretty much been doing that for some time now and it's obviously working.

Getting it together, doing the work and taking care of me will be instrumental in helping me reach that elusive 61st birthday. The 62nd? 63rd? And♪...will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64? ♫ (I may have heard that someplace, too, but I won't say where...)