Just Being Fifty-Nine

The articles I write are usually well considered, polished, and attempt to form a logical narrative.

This one is a little different. It has been written directly from the pen without much censorship.

Why? Today I celebrate my fifty-ninth birthday.

I am not one for parties or grand celebrations on these occasions, but today I decided to take the day off. Ewelina is at work and I have the house to myself.

When I first started writing these posts, I promised myself that I would not compile or promote a manifesto on how anyone should live their life.

I have previously written about accepting that every so often, inactivity is a good thing. Taking my own advice, I gave myself permission to do nothing.

It has been a wonderfully lazy day. Rubbish television, a good book, solitude, and a phone that has pinged regularly with messages from well-wishers.

Fifty-nine is an odd age. I felt somewhat similar when I was twenty-seven. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but as numbers they are neither one thing nor another. No gateway to something new. No finish line marking the end of a transition.

With great mirth, a close friend informed me that fifty-nine was the lowest qualifying age for being officially considered old or elderly.

This is also a time for honest reflection. My final year as a quinquagenarian. An acknowledgement of time served and, for some, perhaps even a spiritual reawakening.

It would be easy for me to become the cliché of an old and world-weary curmudgeon. However, I cannot deny that the tendrils of old age are quietly working their way into my system. If I have a pair of body parts, it would seem that one of them either aches or has decided to take the day off.

Joints crack. I am doing my utmost not to utter an involuntary sound when sitting down or standing up from a low chair.

I paraphrase the brilliant comedian Simon Evans. I am now unable to ascend the stairs with any degree of vigour without the oxygenated blood in my brain becoming sufficiently depleted for me to remember the word "scissors", which was the reason I went upstairs in the first place.

What this birthday has done, however, is herald a one-year countdown. Not to the actual move to Poland, but to something equally significant. By the time I reach sixty, there will be a formal date in the diary.

For years, Poland has existed as a plan. An idea discussed around kitchen tables, on holiday flights, and during countless conversations with Ewelina. Suddenly it feels different. Not because the move is imminent, but because it has become impossible to pretend that it still belongs somewhere in the distant future. The horizon is no longer theoretical.

I understand why people reaching this age begin to look backwards and consider what it took to arrive here.

Whilst there have certainly been more highs than lows, I do not often dwell on the past. Parts of Memory Lane can be rather dark and I would rather not be assaulted in those poorly lit areas.

Do I have regrets? There are times in my life where I wish the outcome had been different. There were occasions when, on reflection, my own conduct has not made me proud. So, in the grand scheme of things, yes, I do have regrets. I could not imagine anyone living a life without any.

The difference is that those scars and hard lessons learned are what made me the person I am now.

I did not intend to arrive at any particular conclusion with this article. It is not about the past, it is not about the future, it is simply about today.

About giving myself permission to be still. To stop planning, stop solving problems and stop worrying about what comes next.

Tomorrow I will return to plans, projects, retirement dates, websites, blog posts, and all the other things that normally occupy my attention.

Today, however, was different.

Today was simply just being fifty-nine.