SEVENTY FIVE
"Old age is like learning a new profession, and not one of your own choosing." ~ Jacques Barzun, 2007
The CDC’s National Center for Health Statistics (NCHS) reported male life expectancy at birth of 75.8 years for the most recent year covered in its December 2024 data brief, a rise from 74.8 in 2022 (reported as life expectancy in 2023).
I will be 75 this month. The quote above by Mr Barzun is accurate. I have been learning this profession, which is full of adaptation, acceptance, hope and challenges.
The statistics say I may be in the final chapters. I plan to keep on writing those chapters and ignoring those statistics,
You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say
"Hello in there, hello" John Prine
I have learned that you need to be your own best friend, and to be comfortable with being just with yourself. People die, and move away. Our social circle grows smaller as we leave school and work behind. I have learned that what others say and do reveals who they are, and very little about me. I have learned that life and living are a treasure and a gift. I hope I have much more to learn and experience in this gift of my life.
The older I get, the more I see to cherish and love. When I look in the mirror I see the boy named Jonny, alive aware astonshed by life and ready to laugh and play, not a graying feral codger worn down by life. what do you see when you look in the mirror?
Jonny Through Time
Jon Pinter
What feels most powerful here is the refusal to let statistics define narrative. Numbers can describe probability, but they cannot measure meaning, curiosity, or the will to remain present inside one’s own unfolding story. Your reflection transforms aging from an ending into a different kind of authorship—one shaped by attention, memory, and deliberate gratitude.
I’m especially struck by the image of still seeing the boy in the mirror. That continuity across decades echoes a deeper truth: time alters the body far more than it alters awareness. The chapters ahead may be fewer in number, but they often carry greater clarity, tenderness, and intention. Pieces like this don’t read as farewells—they read as proof that vitality is less about years remaining and more about the depth with which each moment is lived.
Just turned 73 last week—mind-blowing realization. After a visit to SoCal to visit her sister, she borrowed a slide projector. Set it up on dining room table and a piece of fabric on the wall. Started with slides my Dad shot in the Sixties when we lived in England (military) and then started on mine from the Seventies—a coming of age road trip, our two-year delayed honeymoon/only pre-children vacation, and entire rolls of our first born in a stroller, on the floor, or at the beach. Instead of an agonizing trip down memory lane, I was comforted and encouraged to continue reinventing life now.