60-AND-COUNTING

60. 

Day 1.

Waiting to feel the shift. 

Wondering why I don’t feel the big 6-0 quite yet. I thought I’d feel wiser, less restless, more mellow. 
Hmmm...seems the progression into retirement will be gradual rather than sudden.

And when exactly is the mind meant to catch up with the body? Because wow, my body has clearly veered off on its own tangent. It’s in the knees that complain like Lays packets every time I attempt a gentle bend. It’s in the 3 a.m. wake-ups where I stare at the ceiling as if I’ve been summoned by the universe (or perhaps just past traumas and faux pas) for no reason at all.

It’s in the kidney stones that show up uninvited to announce that pain has layers. It’s in the fountains of water I drink, followed by bountiful bathroom visits. It’s in nails that chip, hair that’s drier than a bush in the Kalahari, and ridiculous reading rituals, as if focusing is suddenly an Olympic sport. In the mornings, I rise as stiff as wood, needing a full engine warm-up before standing upright.

If I carried on like this, we could all have a good cry and call it a tragedy. 

But then I stop and laugh. Because honestly, alignment might be balance, but optimism is my sweet spot.

The mind loves to pretend it’s running the show, but it mostly takes instructions from the heart. And my heart is a vibe. A flirt. A memory keeper. If the mind would just hush for a second, it might notice the quiet buzz underneath everything: that soft hum that speaks volumes. It says I’m still curious. Still turned on by life.

This part of me watches the creaky knees without becoming them. It notices the stiff back without panicking. It stays smooth while the rest of me gathers stories and laugh lines and a few scars that earned their place... on knees and necks, thighs and thoughts.

So here I am, legs propped up like a goddess recovering from a bout of something-something, wondering why the flesh can be such a bitch. Why does it insist on tallying years when my inner girl still wants to dance barefoot, flirt outrageously, and kiss like she means it?

And here’s the rub: desire and drive morph; they get pickier, more deliberate. It’s less about tight bodies and more about intellect and self-confidence. We are no longer proving anything; it is more about pleasure that is claimed. This body may need warming up, but once she’s ready, she knows exactly what she wants. She is not shy about it, and she hits the ground primed and ready to go.

That alone feels like a superpower.

Because this body, bless her, is still the reason I get to taste strong coffee and frangipani in the same breath. She lets me savour my mother’s soup and a sour gummy with equal joy. She feels my son’s laughter ripple through the room, holds my old man’s hand like an anchor, and still shivers deliciously when he brushes my cheek in that familiar way that says: yes, it’s still us.

She carries memory, pleasure, and intimacy. She remembers every kiss worth keeping, every cheeky word, every person who held her close. In those moments, gratitude sneaks in quietly and parks itself in my chest. A steady rhythm. I am thankful for skin that feels, for senses that still light up, for a body that has lived and loved and learned.

Because yes, I am more than this body. But let’s be real: this body is the doorway. She is how I touch the world, how I laugh too loud, how I make love, how I feel joy ripple through my hips instead of just my head.

Aging is the ultimate upgrade.

And awareness gently reminds me, like a good girlfriend would, that I was never meant to stay young. I was meant to live out loud, fully awake, and deliciously myself.