You’ve probably heard that you should never ask a woman her age or her weight. So let me just tell you without you asking. Today, Dec. 18, I turn 60 years old and I am the lowest weight I’ve been in three decades, when I had just given birth to my last biological child. I’m down 60 pounds from my peak, which, perhaps ironically, was during my time in the Utah Legislature. (If you’re dying to know a number, I am at 199.)
Turning 60 is more enjoyable for me than turning 50 was. Fifty meant I had crested the hill and my life was half over. It was weird and disconcerting. Sixty means stepping into a mostly new phase, with another 30 to 40 years ahead of me! I come from solid stock — one of my grandmothers died at age 97 and the other died last year, just a few weeks shy of 102.
Even though turning 50 was weird, the last decade has been one of learning and growth. I earned three degrees in my 50s, beginning with finally earning a bachelor’s degree, then continuing on to earn two graduate degrees. I also learned how to use a radial arm saw and a nail gun, how to change out light fixtures and plugs, how to lay flooring and baseboards, and I’ve learned how to install a backsplash and drywall. I practiced my “Great British Baking Show” skills during a pandemic. My Victoria sponge looked like a vampire cake dripping raspberry jam “blood” from whipped cream “teeth.” Still — it tasted good.
This past year has been one focused on my health — partly by choice and partly thrust upon me. Years of ibuprofen use caught up with me the day after the legislative session ended when I almost bled out on my bathroom floor from two stomach ulcers, at least one of which ate into a vein. Five days in the ICU, multiple blood transfusions and a solid two months to rebuild my normal blood stores left me feeling both profoundly aware of how fragile life is and profoundly grateful to still be here. I’ve had a couple of surgeries I had been putting off — and by the way, getting your tonsils out at age 59 was far more painful than I anticipated. The weight loss has been accompanied by better blood pressure and better A1C numbers for the Type II diabetes I was diagnosed with a decade ago. All in all, it’s been a good year for my health. I am in a better spot now than I have been for quite some time.
I keep hearing that 60 is the new 40 — and I endorse this message. “Today’s conceptions of old age and retirement are modern inventions,” writes Jonathan Rauch for The Atlantic. He reminds us that life expectancy at birth was 18 years in the early Bronze Age, 22 in the Roman empire and 36 in Massachusetts in 1776. It’s 77.5 years in the U.S. today and getting longer. “With millions of people living vigorously into their 80s and beyond, the very idea of “retirement” — the expectation that people will leave the workforce at an arbitrary age — makes no sense,” he says.
That’s great for me since, clearly, I’ve had a non-linear career path, one that looks more like a Gantt chart, with overlapping roles leapfrogging their way across my life. Now, I am at the front end of a career I began only four years ago. Before that, motherhood was my career, with some “side projects” that included politics, a blog and being a midwife. I look forward to many more years of career ahead of me.
I’ve leaned into writing this year, honing my skills to craft stories that resonate — and writing important stories that might be easier to ignore, like the genocide and famine in Sudan and the abhorrent conditions for women in Afghanistan. I continue to produce and send out a Utah Policy newsletter five days a week. And I think about writing a book but so far, that’s all. (Maybe the next decade will see me become a published book author.)
My husband and I are also thinking about downsizing, something that gives my adult children, some of whom still live at home, fits of anxiety. “Where will we have Christmas?!” they exclaim. They seem unconvinced when I tell them we don’t need to keep a giant house for one day a year. Traditions can be grounding and provide some sense of stability, but they can change, too. Maybe we’ll have to rotate Christmas between the kids’ houses. Or use a church gym. Or rent an Airbnb. We’ll survive.
If 50 felt disconcerting, 60 feels exhilarating. The possibilities ahead are endless, maybe even an empty nest someday — though I won’t hold my breath on that one.
