In his magazine article titled simply “65” (his age), Marc Jacobson reflects on the meaning of all those revolutions around the sun:
Throughout my life, there has always been a number that sounded old. When I was 16, it was 27; at 29, it was 42; at 38, it was 52. At 65, however, it was 65.
After all, 65 is a longtime bullet-point mile marker along the Interstate of American Life... Sixty-five is when you’re supposed to retire, put your feet up, smell the roses, to bask in the glow of a well-spent life in the land of the free. This lovely neo-utopian vision has largely been replaced by the ethic of work-work-work until you drop, but 65 still remains the top of the stretch, where, like a creaky claiming horse in the sixth race at Aqueduct, you’re supposed to be turning for home.
For me, 65 was an onset of pure panic, an ingress of cold claustrophobia…
This week, dear writers, title your piece with your age, and then write your own reflection on what it all means. Experiment (as Jacobson does above) with what expectations society places on your age, versus your real, lived experience.