My Last Big Birthday (Unless I Make It to 100)

Except for those of my children and grandchildren, birthdays have never meant much to me. But I’m staring at a big one. My Last Big One, if big ones are measured in 25-year increments. How do I know it’s the last big one? Because I have a high degree of confidence that I won’t make it to 100.

There’s a meme out there that most people don’t want to live to be 100, because they will deteriorate beyond recognition, be so limited cognitively that they won’t be functional in any meaningful way, will run out of money, or some combination of those (and more) that make the prospect of living to 100 unappealing. Me? I’d be happy to make it to 100. I just don’t think I will.

I’m in pretty good shape, cognitively and physically. The ailments I have aren’t of the internal organ, “they’re going to kill me soon” variety. They are more joint-centric — painful, a frequent reminder of my age and the challenges I put my body through, willfully and otherwise, but not in and of themselves life threatening.

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Of course, that could change in an instant and those organs could erupt into full scale rebellion, or there could be an accident, an act of God, whatever that may mean, or an AI-driven existential cataclysm that would make my otherwise good health  – and if you believe some of what is in the ether, all of humanity – irrelevant.

I resist falling back on cliched phrases like, “it’s been a good run,” or Sinatra’s “regrets I’ve had a few but then again too few to mention.” I do, however, like the line, “I always wanted an interesting life. I should have been more specific.” It has been interesting. Not as I had envisioned it, or necessarily hoped for, but extremely interesting. One of the unresolved questions I still grind on is whether I didn’t live up to my potential, or if I wildly exceeded the limits of my modest talents. Probably both.

Early Career

When I was a young journalist, back in the Woodward and Bernstein era, I thought I would change the world. That didn’t happen. Then I leapt full force into the entertainment world and thought I would create ageless masterpieces of film and television. Same result – didn’t happen. There were successes along the way, professionally and personally, some of which came out of what seemed like the most dismal of circumstances.

I fought the unanticipated battle of a lifetime (kind of a Hundred Years War, except it seemed to last longer) to get sole custody of my kids, being blindsided by events and behaviors I couldn’t have predicted in my wildest nightmares, spending every penny I had and many I didn’t have, and got the result I wanted, only to find out what I already knew, that the really, really hard – and rewarding – work of being a single parent lay ahead. But boy, I did love it.

I had a career that gave new meaning to the words “eclectic” and “non-linear,” met some truly fascinating people along the way, a few of whom became my heroes, others who were just famous people who I concluded didn’t merit the fame, watched as former classmates rose and fell and rose again, all the while managing to pull off a trick that Houdini would marvel at – working really hard and making precious little money. Ta-da!

Joe Seldner writes the Substack column “ELDERMAN: The Oldest New Superhero.” 

Climbing mountains

I climbed mountains, literally and metaphorically, pushed my mind and body to the limit (which I do even now, playing sports I should have abandoned decades ago and going back to school full time at an age where nearly everyone on campus mistook me for a wise faculty member, until of course, they heard me talk) tackled adventures that were exhilarating and age-inappropriate, and suffered pain, again, literally and metaphorically.

Loved and lost more times than I won, making several choices that belied my long-held belief that I was an excellent judge of character and a few that showed that judgment wasn’t totally clouded. And now, I’m not tired at all. I’m more energized than I have been in decades. I have much left to do and not much time to do it.

I want to write that novel and those screenplays I’ve jotted down scenes from for years.

I want to go to Morocco and Brazil and Israel and back to Australia and Greece and Portugal and spend more time in England.

I want to see my children and my grandchildren grow and explore and spread their wings and be happy. Be happy.

I don’t believe in the “everything will be okay” mantra. I hope so. But I don’t know.

What I do know is my children and grandchildren have made my life worthwhile.

So here it is. 75. A big number. A lot of years.

These days, I too often stop and wonder, how many more autumns will I enjoy? Is that ache just another manifestation of being old, or is this the one that will do me in? How many more times will I laugh with my kids and offer them advice they will smile about and ignore? How many more times will I…? The list is long. Reflecting on one’s life is a natural thing to do, but it elicits the same response as the one I give when someone asks me “How’s it going?” My response is always, “Can’t complain, and if I did, who would care?” Reflecting on my life is interesting to me, but likely not to anyone else outside of a very, very small circle. Which is fine. I’d like to make it to 100. But for now, 76 would be perfectly okay.