Seventy years old. Let that rattle around a minute.
For a lot of businesses, that’s long past the expiration date they stamp on your forehead. Thanks for your service, now shuffle off to the golf course, maybe buy a recliner, fade politely into irrelevance.
Not me. Not yet.
I’m still here, still raising hell, still stringing words together like they owe me rent. Still laughing at the wrong jokes while also knowing when to button it up in a client meeting. Still learning, still cussing, still showing up.
And here’s the kicker: I like it better now. The pressure’s gone. I don’t have to pretend to be twenty-five with a full head of hair and a bulletproof plan. I get to be seventy, scars and all, and keep creating without asking permission. That’s freedom.
So if you think there’s an expiration date on relevance, think again. Age doesn’t close the door ... it blows it wide open.
Long live the ones who stay engaged. Long live the ones who keep swinging long after the crowd thinks they should’ve sat down.
I’m seventy. Get the fuck out of my way.
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