Now that I am practically 60, I’m scared that old age might happen to me before I’m ready. I still dream of future travel adventures, transformative self-discoveries and personal physical achievements. I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. But what if I’ve already stepped off the precipice without knowing it?

When I was a kid, anyone over thirty was “old.”

This week, I turned 59, so I guess by my own standards, I’m downright ancient. Fifty- nine isn’t much older than 58, but according to the “round up” rule my teachers taught me at East Pike Elementary, for all intents and purposes, I’m actually 60. Yikes.

I’ve never been particularly stressed about aging, but reaching 59 (well, 60) has presented me with a troubling dilemma.

Somewhere in the latter half of one’s life is a fine line. A threshold, if you will, across which there is no turning back. A precipice from which one inadvertently steps off into that vast chasm known as “old age.”

Have you ever been at a stoplight, and glanced over at the car next to you to see an elderly woman in a large sedan with her seat fully forward and a death grip on the steering wheel, wearing an enormous pair of wraparound sunglasses?

Have you ever been in a buffet line, and as the older gentleman ahead of you scoops the cottage cheese, you notice he has on elastic-waisted polyester pants hiked well above his waistline, likely ordered in multiple colors from an ad in the back of Parade Magazine?

Have you ever scanned the sunbathers at the community pool and noticed older women wearing skirted bathing suits that cover their crepey thighs and sensible sandals that won’t bother their knobby toes? And, on those occasions, did you think to yourself, “I’ll never be like that”?

But the old timers we see in our everyday lives didn’t raise a white flag and surrender to old age. They sauntered unsuspectingly over life’s invisible threshold without a care in the world, completely unaware that old age was creeping up on them like the Delta Force. Before they knew it, they were seized. No longer able to identify fashion and lifestyle trends, old timers find that their main objective is comfort, and who could begrudge them that?

Now that I am practically 60, I’m scared that old age might happen to me before I’m ready. I still dream of future travel adventures, transformative self-discoveries and personal physical achievements. I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.

But what if I’ve already stepped off the precipice without knowing it?

Recently, I needed a pair of new sneakers, but I refused to order Hokas for the mere fact that all my older friends swear by them. “They’re so comfortable!” they tell me, a sure sign of old age. In denial of my arthritic joints, I stubbornly insisted on finding “cool” sneakers. I tried on at least a dozen pairs but was unable to find shoes with a stiff enough arch, a wide enough toe box and enough ankle support to not set off my bad knee, my arthritic lower back and my achy bunions. I realized that Hokas, like aging, might be unavoidable.

I’ve also taken to drinking a microwaved cup of coffee each day around 4 o’clock. I often comment that the house feels chilly. I watch Court TV. I can name the birds that perch on our bird feeder. I suddenly have the urge to play Mahjong.

Uh oh …

Should I give up and embrace aging? Stock up on glucosamine? Don wraparound shades? Appreciate well-cooked vegetables? Ensconce myself in granny squares? Take up Spider Solitaire? Or, should I resist the inevitable advancement of time with all my might? Cram myself into trendy jeans? Bone up on hip-hop? Inject my face with fillers? Develop a taste for seaweed? Take surfing lessons?

Probably not a good idea, and besides, my children would be traumatized from embarrassment. I suspect that the key to aging gracefully is to accept that it will happen without me realizing it.

Regardless, I will pray that God grants me the serenity to accept that while I may not be a geezer, I’m certainly no spring chicken. The courage to resist the urge to order $19.99 poly-blend slacks from the weekly newspaper insert, instead of buying a decent pair of Levis at the PX. And the wisdom to know the difference between all-you-can-eat tapioca pudding and good creme brulee.

Amen.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com