For the first time, I’ve considered being 80 years old. It happened twice in the same week.
First, as a result of dreaming about retiring someday, I was confronted by a projected shortfall in savings linked to my lifespan. Things like this come from actuarial tables that predict what you can expect based on what you’ve already done. According to the tool I was using, I have several options. I can work longer, save lots more, or die younger.
Next came the wedding anniversary. “Here’s to twenty-seven more,” put me squarely into my mid eighties. I recall when twenty-seven plus my current age put me at the unbelievably ancient number of forty-five, coinciding with the year 2000, which on its own was futuristic and impossible to grasp as an eighteen year old.
So, that leaves me thinking about 80. Hopefully I make it, but if 80 compared to 57 feels like 57 compared to 34, I’d better start working out.