I’m Sixty.

On the morning of my sixtieth birthday, my friend Bee made us a pile of huevos rancheros for breakfast. There was a light snow. We walked the dog through the cemetery next to the complex where she lives and I reloaded the car. A storm front had moved in the night before and I was eager to be the other side of the Wasatch Range. I only had to cover slightly over 200 miles but traveling alone makes me cautious.

There were two options, over Route 6, a mountain pass that has earned the moniker of the most dangerous highway in America, or via two major interstates. A friend in Seattle told me the 15 to 70 route is probably the most beautiful drive in the US, but the traffic map showed 70 checkered with snowplows while 6 was, well, high and dry.

For a while, I drove south into a wall of steel gray, high and flat, obscuring the mountains around Salt Lake City. But when I turned east to wind up to Soldier Summit, the sky opened to such a saturated blue, it seemed quite unreal.

I scheduled four days to drive from Seattle to Salt Lake City. It was the end of December and it was simply impossible to know what the weather would do. Plus, my travels were between Christmas and New Year’s; I did not want to be stuck with no place to stay should the weather be very bad. It was not, in fact, bad at all. There were several stretches of near white-out fog, but most of the time the roads were clear and dry. On my birthday, I arrived in Moab to spend the first month of my sixties surrounded by scrub oaks and reddish-pink soil.

Sixty is such a significant age to reach. My mom died at 83; if I follow in her path I will have a mere 23 years left. I recently played with some mortality calculators and consistently landed at 89, so that puts me, today, at the two-thirds marker. It is easy for me to recall the broad strokes of the last 25-30 years, the landmarks, but I am not sure there is any sense in using them to determine the path of the next 25 and change.

In some ways, I am living the life I imagined for myself when I became an adult. I did not expect to own a home or have a career in tech, but the picture I held in my head did not have children in it, I never wanted kids, never. I think I imagined myself single, though not quite as single as I am today. I am not surprised to be at this kitchen table, drinking coffee, writing, looking out into a landscape that I do not know.

At sixty, I do not feel particularly wise about anything. I suppose if I have any wisdom to bestow upon The Young People it would be to figure out what ‘enough’ looks like to you and be happy with that. So much time is wasted in pursuit of more, then you have more, I don’t know, real estate? Fancier cars? And so much less time in which you could have been walking your dog under the scrub oaks. A friend recently told me they were completely uninterested in a promotion at their job saying it could only bring trouble. They were making enough money, it was fine. That seemed awfully wise to me.

The other thing I think I have learned is that painful decisions are not necessarily bad ones. Getting a divorce or quitting your job can really fucking hurt — and hurt for a long time — and still be exactly what you are supposed to do. Does it take too long to find a new route when you have set that bridge on fire behind you? Yes, it does. Is hearing the curses of your demons get fainter and fainter as you put distance between you and The Bad Thing worth it? Oh, hell yes. Hell. Yes.

I struggle with all the usual stuff of aging, my shoulder hurts, I am stiff in the morning, why don’t those pants fit, who is that person looking back at me from the mirror, oh shit, I am sixty. But I had this moment when I was flying across the wide open highway, my dog snoozing in the back seat, the radio on, and I thought, “This is good, look at what you did. Look at how you are not letting your age or your relationship status or your scars stop you from hurling yourself at yet another adventure.”

And now I have coffee while I write. The dog is looking at me with his sweet brown eyes. The morning sun is coming through the bare oaks, and turning everything gold and okay, okay, I’m sixty.