Age is a funny thing. It’s so important to everybody. It starts around three. Ask a three-year-old how old they are and they stick up three fingers and they are so proud of it and pleased that you asked.
When they reach five they like to add one half to it. I’m five and a half they tell you. When they reach ten they like to say they are ten going on eleven. The sixteenth birthday is a very special milestone and eighteen is even better.
Finally they reach the magic year of twenty-one. You feel as though you have finally arrived, but why doesn’t anybody notice. Life moves along rather rapidly and they reach thirty. That calls for a special birthday party. You're almost over the hill. Then the memory starts to fade a bit and you stay thirty for a couple years. I mean some people do that, not me of course.
When you reach forty you hope nobody will notice. Fifty is almost forgotten or at least you wish folks would just forget about it, but your family or friends will not let it lie.
One day you wake up and you’ve reached sixty. You really are over the hill. Nobody cares how old you are because most of your friends are about the same age, so it isn’t mentioned very often. Finally you reach eighty. You have another one of those special birthday parties. Now you begin to get a different attitude about age. You start acting like the three-year-old. You’re pretty pleased that God let you live this long. You start saying you’re eighty and a half. I am eighty-two going on eighty-three. When and if I reach 90 I will be so thankful I’m over the hill and not under it. That is, if I remember what a hill is.
The moral of the story is, don’t take ‘age’ too seriously, it won’t last.