I’m working on 70. I’m just gonna go ahead and say it. I have cousins who would still call me a whipper-snapper at my age, or their age, depending on how you look at it. But 70 is nothing to sniff at.

Back when I was 55, the old folks use to look at all my youthful vigor and charm with disdain. I could see it. They weren’t good at hiding it. Especially if I said something about my back hurting, or having to get up in the night, or not having the energy I used to have.

The old guys. Their favorite retort. “Oh #@$$, I’ve got underwear older than you.”

I think not. I’ve never gotten more than 10 or 15 years outta a pair of underwear before it falls apart. No way they had underwear older than me.

Old guys lie.

I won’t actually be 70 until October. I was a late season baby. Started first grade early and walked across the stage for my high school diploma at 17. My classmates harassed me for not being 18 like those lucky enough to be born in, say, February or March. Like they had something to do with the timing of it all.

This created a deep sense of insecurity for me, believe it or not. I didn’t get my driver’s license until right after I started my junior year. The hallways at the school were brutal.

“You’re just now turning 16?!!!”

“You should be a sophomore.”

“Oh #@$$, I’ve got underwear older than you.”

I reverted to an old standard cheap tactic used by 12-year-olds for centuries. Young boys and girls so close to becoming a teenager that they can taste it. Their thirteenth birthday may be 10 months away, but they’re already claiming to be 13. What’s a few months when you’ve racked up nearly 13 years?

So, when I started college with a bunch of strangers who had no idea how old I was, I went ahead and claimed to be 18. My October birthday was a month and a half off, but no one’s gonna care about a few weeks. I’m practically already there. No sense in stirring up the underwear comments.

Now that I find myself creeping up on October, I’m just ready to claim it and get it over with. I’m telling people I’m 70. Sometimes I’ll hear myself say something like, “I’ll be 70 in a few weeks,” which is not exactly accurate but not entirely false either. There are fewer weeks until my 70th birthday now than there was five years ago. It’s a matter of perspective.

You see, I’m proud of crossing this particular threshold in life. I’m wearing it like a badge of honor. I’m not complaining about it. I’m not upset about it. I’m actually really glad that I’ve made it to 70. Besides, no one’s counting anyway, and I’m not ready for the alternative to not making it.

However, lately there have been signs that I cannot ignore.

I’m not exactly sure when I’ll be considered elderly as in, “He’s such a pleasant elderly gentleman.” I suppose as long as I have friends who are well into their 80s and 90s (I’ll not name names), by most standards I still fall short of being elderly. They say that 70 is the new 50, but I think that “they” who say this are in their 70s and don’t want to think about the realities of getting older.

I will admit that the strains of getting older have a lot to do with how one thinks about aging. The mind can convince you that you are older than you are. For example, some mornings when I get out of bed my mind tells me that I’m 85. Give me 30 minutes and my mind changes its attitude. “Okay,” it says, “you’re only 80.”

So, I try to think young. It’s a game I often play, like when I’m standing on the tailgate of my truck. There was a time when I never thought about the matters that face a man while standing in such places. I’d just leap down to the ground, turn and close the tailgate.

Now, I stand there and think for a minute. I think, “It’s not that far to the ground. I’ve jumped from higher places. I know I’m not 14 anymore. Back then I used to jump out of the hay loft at the barn, but this is not that. Come on old man, you can do this. Don’t be a wuss.”

It’s about this time that Marion is standing there observing me.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About how I’m gonna get down from here.”

She’s such a sassy whipper-snapper. She’s younger, you know. She’s not gonna hit 70 for a while, yet.

She raises an eyebrow. “Am I gonna have to trade you in for a younger model?”

So, I jump down. My life flashes before me. I hit the landing, let things settle, and stand still for a moment to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. I’m good.

This is how a young man rolls.

But getting older is not just a mental game. Some of the mitigating factors are more real than I’d like to admit.

Like trying to balance on one foot. This is a useful skill for anyone, and it comes up more often that you younger folks ever think about. Drying off with a towel. Slipping one foot into a pair of jeans. Any movement that requires a no-hands one-legged lift, even for just a few seconds.

With only one foot making contact with the floor it’s easy to pull a muscle. You tilt just a little and suddenly you’re reaching blindly for the wall. This is why men who turn 70 like Sketchers. Slip a foot in. No balance required.

I’ve also noted lately that I have old-man skin.

Twice now in the past week I’ve been outside working with a fallen tree. Chainsaw slashing through wood. Vines tangled up. Dragging limbs. Stacking a brush pile. I’ve been doing this my entire life.

Both times when I stood back and wiped the sweat from my eyes, I realized that my arms looked like they’d been run through a grinder. Scratches that turn to deep purple marks beneath the skin. Discolorations that remain for days.

My skin used to be tough. I didn’t bleed much. Now my arms are looking more like my dad’s arms every year.

I’ve got to tell you, though, I’m enjoying life at 70 more than I reckon I’ve enjoyed any other time in my life. I don’t mind the white hair. I don’t mind the sleepless nights. I don’t even mind slowing down a little bit. I still like to play games with the grandkids. I still dance when nobody’s looking.

Even so, Marion worries about me. When we’re working together and I get a little winded, she’ll sometimes look at me and suggest that I should take a break. I just look her square in the eyes.

“Honey, I’ve got underwear older than you.”

Which is almost true.