I received some lovely birthday gifts, including a beautiful typewriter print, a fetching T-shirt from Portugal, a tiny printing press, and a yellow rollerball pen.
By far and away the best gift of all came yesterday, in the gym, when, on hearing I’d just turned 60, one of the coaches, just finishing up his own spicy workout, said, matter-of-factly:
You don’t look it.
To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with “looking 60,” and I find myself embracing aging more than rejecting it.
I take the compliment, whether intended as such or not, as “you’re not giving up.”
No, I’m not giving up.
I am
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