A Birthday Pinnacle at 75

Sooner or later, everyone wants the same thing for a birthday gift—not to be reminded of it.

75th_birthday_s2As the years trickle by, I find myself getting wiser and more experienced, not old and decrepit. I’ll leave that to the hypochondriacs and pessimists of the world.

Weeks before I celebrated my 75th birthday in September, I was looking forward to this pinnacle in my life. Fifty bothered me. Even 60. Upon reaching 70, my rationale changed.

“What the heck? It’s only another decade,” I kept reminding myself.

And now that my century is three-quarters complete, I have even greater expectations. In another five years, I’ll let you know how it feels to become an octogenarian.

If genealogy is my friend, I look to my mother who fell a month shy of 99. Two aunts were also in their upper 90s. A grandmother was 92, and often mistaken for my mother’s sister.

I have friends who moan and groan about their aches and pains. They think age is a curse and continue to treat it like a root canal. On the contrary, my 75th is a gift, considering what I have to show for it: a wonderful wife of 50 years, 3 beautiful children, good spouses, and a cache of 6 marvelous grandchildren.

No, I won’t bore you with their pictures, even though I tend to overwork my camera. Suffice it to say, I count my blessings whenever the family gathers, chaotic as it may seem at times.

I can still play a good game of racquetball, hike a mountain, write a decent story, and keep all my priorities in order. We travel, remain active in church, teach language school, belong to organizations, volunteer our time to worthy projects, and make a difference in society.

What more would I want?

To get this far was not easy. The Grim Reaper was knocking on my door more times than you’d care to know. As a child, I was rescued from a near-drowning at Revere Beach. There was that time when an errant motorist rear-ended me, bringing the Jaws of Life to my rescue.

Two heart procedures could have turned fatal, especially the triple by-pass three years ago. I’m not bionic by any means, just lucky I guess. I strongly believe that the Good Man upstairs has his reasons. When he wants me, he’ll call.

I’m at the age now—and have been for some time—where many of my friends and associates are expiring. First thing I read is the obituary pages. It bothers me immensely to attend a funeral of a loved one. My only sibling, a brother, passed suddenly at 54 of cardiac arrest. He deserved better.

One other paradox confronts me. I see people who are the epitome of health. They work out regularly, follow diets, have a good outlook on life, and are gone before they’re 70. Others violate the very body they own, eat the wrong foods, drink, smoke, take drugs, and live well beyond their years. Go figure!

I’ve reached the point that when the phone rings, I hope my wife will answer it. I prefer small gatherings to throngs of people. Long drives at night have me restless. My idea of a night out is a quick eat at the deli and home to a movie or book.

As the bewitching hour approaches, I look at my watch and beg everyone’s pardon, even if the children are visiting. And when we’re being entertained, I do not like to overstay my welcome.

Whereas Saturday nights were my favorite party nights, now I take every night as it comes and welcome my quiet and solitude. Yes, I have my pills but not as many as some people. My doctors and I have a close rapport so long as I follow their orders.

I’ve also been a member of the AARP for 25 years now. That entitles me to discounts and a magazine each month, showing people my age looking 25 years younger.

People send me attachments all the time about reminiscing about how life used to be. Pictures of the yo-yo and 45 rpm records. Jimmy Dean and Elvis. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio. All good eras that manifested those fine moments of youth.

I often revisit those sacred times. That keeps me vital—when you refuse to let go of your youth. The evening of my 75th, after a quiet dinner, I played the Bill Haley song, “Rock Around the Clock,” and watched “American Graffiti.”

Then I said a silent prayer of thanks and went to bed. The next day was like any other. The sun was shining and the air felt good.

An old nightingale still chirps a happy tune.

Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.
Tom Vartabedian

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