Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

This weekend is my Beatle Birthday.

I had my “LP” Birthday in 1992, my “Single” Birthday in 2003—and if you’re old enough to get those references, I see you—but they went by relatively (or completely) unnoticed, unmarked, unremembered. (My “78” Birthday, in 2036, might be the same, and I hope I’m lucky enough to reach it.)

Since 1967, though, I’ve thought fondly of this coming milestone, despite the fact that I was convinced I’d never reach such an “advanced” age. The song pretty much nailed what I looked forward to in my elder years (sans grandkids, of course; never wanted kids, much less grandkids), with its images of puttering in the gardens, fixing things about the house, taking a month at the seaside in summertime.

I mentioned last time that my retirement is finally visible on the horizon, and this birthday, routinely imagined for the past 55 years, is a time to stop, look around, and evaluate.

Some of my friends have already retired. Some have put their all into new ventures. Some hopped on a plane on Day One and began (or continued) to travel the world. Some, sadly, took ill, beginning entirely unplanned journeys. I admit, I compared the image in my head with how they began their Third Act, and felt the old report card put-down of “Not performing up to his potential.”

It’s not as though I plan never to travel. It’s not as though I plan not to try new things, learn new things. It’s not as though I plan to spend my entire retirement digging the weeds and fixing fuses. It’s just that, in my heart, after decades of pushing, learning, wrangling, fretting, struggling, planning, pacing, saving, working, I merely want to slow down and enjoy the ticking of the clock, the crackle of the fire, perhaps the crash of waves on the shore, and the settling of ice in a dram of whisky.

And, of course, I hope that she will still need me, that she will still feed me, when I’m sixty-four.

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