Ain't got them sexagenarian blues

Bill Taylor was memorably critical of Salut!'s decision to publish occasional guest columns. So what better way could there be of expressing his disapproval than to write his second such contribution, this time on the importance of feeling upbeat about being 60? Accepted with glee, not least because it - and Bill's apparent struggle, even at 50, to climb a few steps on the Great Wall of China - make Salut! feel young

Turning 60 last month proved to be a non-event. The day dawned and there it was - or there I was. The same as I had been the day before. It finally struck me that with everyone around me taking my age in their stride, I could hardly continue making a fuss over it myself.

The final couple of weeks of being 59 had been rather fraught. The proximity of that seventh decade was daunting. In spite of all the clichés about 60 being the new 40, as far as I was concerned, 60 was 60 and it seemed, for want of a better word, getting on for ancient. A time to start thinking of retirement and pensions. Both of which are such old words. I felt as if the passage from one decade to another couldn't help but make me feel different. But it didn't.

I'd never before had a problem with ages ending in a zero - 50 passed as painlessly as 40. Thirty, I hardly remember. I had a bit of a problem when I hit 39. That was my first mid-life crisis. Or possibly my only one - they've flowed together so seamlessly since as to be hard to distinguish one from another. I quickly learned to treat them rather like a half-tamed horse. The key was not to be thrown but to stay in the saddle and enjoy the ride. And for the most part I have.

Anyway, having finally given up trying to hold my birthday in abeyance and instead accepting the depredations of anno domini (while making an appointment to have the blond streaks in my hair touched up), I've bitten the bullet - preferable to firing it through the roof of my mouth and calling "tide's out" on my sea of troubles. I'm now taking early retirement from the Toronto Star, where I've worked for the past 23 years.

I'm not sure when my final day will be/ Some time in the late summer, I imagine. But I've already started to clean out my desk. Walking down from the fifth floor newsroom to Human Resources on the second floor to put in my application for what is a quite generous voluntary-separation package felt strange. Almost like stage-fright. Walking back (even at this age, I try only to use elevators for double-figure trips) felt much better: almost as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

It was heartening, too, that no one told me I was making a terrible mistake or asked, "What on earth will you do with yourself?"

Instead, there were congratulations, handshakes and: "What will you do first?"

The assumption seemed to be that I would reinvent myself. I'm not sure how far this holds true. I am, objectively and in all modesty, as a writer of journalism still at the top of my game. There's no diminution - not yet, anyway - of my skills. I'd hate to think I was getting out because I had to. I already have the promise of as much freelance work as I can handle.

I do hope to become more deeply involved in photography, especially the production of photo books. There's also the possibility (no more than that at the moment) of a conventional book deal. It might even stretch to two books, I'm not sure. And I'll continue to travel, though perhaps not as much as some people seem to expect. I agree less and less with Robert Louis Stevenson that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive. Unless you're on a comfortable train, there's little or nothing hopeful about the process; I just want to get there.

Besides, freelance travel writing pays very badly and you tend to find yourself on junkets, looking at what everyone else is looking at. I don't play terribly well with others.

So, reinvention? It feels more like realignment, a shifting of perspective and the chance to do things for a change on my terms rather than someone else's. And whenever possible, to take the pictures for my own stories. It'll be easier to find the time for lunches that meander through the afternoon and joyfully segue into dinner, though I imagine I'll still get out of bed no later in the morning.

But who knows what I'll end up doing or where I'll end up doing it? There'll still be regular money coming in, though my company pension doesn't start until I turn 62. By then, I might even be able to face the words "pension" and "retirement" with a certain equanimity. Either that, or I'll be into a late mid-life crisis.

Ride 'em, cowboy!

Comments

[Gigi]

Joyeux Anniversaire Bill! I turned 49 last month and I'll be clinging on to that for as long as I'm able (I can already see 50 hurtling towards me like a runaway TGV...)

I'm looking forward to buying one of your photography books so do keep us all informed, please :-)

Gigi (resolutely quadragenarian)

[Dumdad]

Good luck as you walk off into the sunset - but I hope you'll still be popping in to Salut! regularly to show that young whippersnapper Colin the error of his ways.

[Roads]

Well done, Bill. I'd always assumed from your comments that you must be far younger. I'll reassemble that mental image with a new set of carpet slippers accordingly.

But relax. 60 is the new 30. I'd say you're lucky to have some time to yourself. With the state of pensions in the UK, I'll certainly be working for much longer than that. And as long as someone elses pays for my travel, that will be just fine.

[Roads]

Well done, Bill. I'd always assumed from your comments that you must be far younger. I'll reassemble that mental image with a new set of carpet slippers accordingly.

But relax. 60 is the new 30. I'd say you're lucky to have some time to yourself. With the state of pensions in the UK, I'll certainly be working for much longer than that. And as long as someone elses pays for my travel, that will be just fine.

[keith]

Many happy returns Bill, and good luck with the change of direction. To switch round a sporting cliche: if you're good enough, you're young enough. And to employ another cliche: You're only as old as you feel.
Keith, 96

[Pete Sixsmith]

A wisw decision Bill. I got my Teachers pension breakdown yesterday and I was sorely tempted, but the prospect of a bigger pot in three years time drives me on. Now, if you wanted to act as a literary agent for me and Colin you would be most welcome. After Great Paper Boys of the World we also have a real corker in mind called Red and White. Fix us up with a deal, mate.

[Bill Taylor]

If I take on the promotion of your and Colin's literary careers, there may prove not to be enough hours in the day, Pete. Even without that, early retirement doesn't look as if it's going to be at all restful. But I'll certainly buy copies of your books.
I can never decide if Keith and Roads (and Roads) are right and that age is just a state of mind. I certainly find it easy to think of myself as no older than 30, until I'm inexorably reminded that my body can no longer keep up with my mind. I recall something my dad said when he turned 85: "I feel no different inside." He was quite heartbreakingly bewildered by his physical breakdown. It was something he never came to terms with.
Wherever I wind up, Jules (and for the immediate future, it's Toronto with occasional excursions), I'll still be around to keep "young" Randall honest.
A question, Gigi: Could a runaway TGV go any faster than the regular variety? Either way, the march of time does start to move at a frightening speed. Fyi, I have one book available on the website and I'm hoping to have another on the go soon, dedicated to Paris.

[Tim Sinclair]

As a 62-year-old who took early retirement four years ago, I highly recommend it. Happy birthday.

[louise]

My father was the same, Bill - more mentally alert than the rest of the family put together but angry that his body was playing tricks on him.
It appears that people who let down from work slowly, rather than one day at the office, the next day mooching round the house, do seem to find retirement easier to cope with and adapt more easily.
The worst off seem to be the wives! I have friends who hate having their retired husband around during the day - 'widowed' during the day for thirty odd years, and suddenly there is someone forever in the kitchen making coffee, or lurking at lunchtime!

[Bill Taylor]

Yeah, my dad was a supermarket manager one day and retired the next. I was in the States by then but I know it wasn't an easy transition for him. Or for my mother.
No problem with my suddenly being around the house all day. Lesley has always worked full-time and will continue to do so. And it looks as if I'll have more than enough to keep me occupied.