'One of the best things about being sixty is that I know myself and I know what’s likely, and I’m not going to beat myself up about the unimportant stuff'
The other bits that might need some attending to in the maturity stakes include stuff like: overlove of Ribena, sulking, cutting my food up into little bits, the feeling of homework-not-done dread on a Sunday evening usually synonymous with the opening bars of the Songs of Praise theme tune, resolutely refusing to use people’s titles if they have them, purposely dribbling on my brother, the desire to have glitter on my face and, if at all possible, wear strap-on wings. Crying too much. Not flossing enough. Giving everyone slightly unkind secret nicknames. Making low rumbling roaring noises when impatient. Being sarcastic too often, too loudly. Suddenly tickling people. Not eating anything with a shell or a tentacle. Having to have the last word, and putting fingers in ears and yelling if someone else attempts to. Oh, and on fingers – sticking a wet one in husband’s ear when he’s not expecting it.
That last one is literally perilously dangerous . . . but, childishly, I can’t stop doing it, m’lud, even though I know it could end me.
I suppose that if these are my growing-up ambitions, it’s entirely possible that I could achieve them. It’s just not that probable, because I’m unlikely to try that hard if I’m honest. You see, one of the best things about being sixty is that I know myself and I know what’s likely, and I’m not going to beat myself up about the unimportant stuff.
I’m going to prioritize and scout about for stuff to do that makes me laugh, makes me cry right, keeps me on my toes, teaches me something new, or confirms something I hold dear. I’m going to seek out the quiet processes and I’m going to make my own small circles where I can enjoy all the little things thank you very much.
At sixty, I know that:
All the small stuff makes the big.
All the tiny minutes make one big life.
Every minute properly matters.
Live it BIG...