Today, I achieved a birthday milestone. I turned 73 years old, and I don’t have one of those bingo-style pill boxes sitting on my kitchen table that old people use to keep track of their prescribed medications. That’s not bad considering the various threats to life and limb I’ve experienced for seven decades, including contracting polio at four, getting hit by a car when I was slightly older (I don’t remember how old cause I was hit by a car), and when older, many episodes of poor decision making often connected to drink or drugs while traveling and living in Europe, North Africa, and Japan. But here I am.
Last night, I watched a show on Netflix, “Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones,” that profiled communities worldwide where a higher-than-average number of people maintain their health and vitality to the centennial mark. It was very interesting. Diet, regular exercise, strong community or family support systems, and a sense of purpose were among the determining factors. Social media time, this morning’s birthday breakfast of frozen waffles — not so much.
Having turned 73, I’m not aiming for the 100 mark. But I hope to be able to continue reeling in fish and climbing into a deer stand for many more years.
I appreciate all the birthday wishes I received.