Turning eighty (which I will do next month) is daunting. Period.
I didn’t miss a beat when I turned seventy. It was just a number. However, on my seventy-fifth birthday, I wrote in this blog that I was beginning to feel old. At eighty, I am old.
But what does that mean? I’m not working, but I’m fully engaged. In the last week, I heard three outstanding speakers on subjects I knew very little about. I read a Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Geraldine Brooks. I went to the Renwick Gallery, a jewel of a museum. I met some new people as I try to build a network in Washington. As of this moment I am (gratefully) in good health, and my doctor tells me that I “have a lot of mileage left.”
So bring on eighty. I’ll give it my best.