On Turning Seventy

The life lesson uppermost in my mind right now is: how quickly it passes. That is particularly true if one has a very good long-term memory, as I do. Events of more than half a century ago seem like just yesterday. With my 50th high school reunion a few years back, I reconnected with a few old friends, and in those relationships, I find myself inevitably the unofficial historian, as I regale them with memories of how dumb we were. (In my day, we actually expected to learn a great deal as life went along.)

I’m not sure that all my old friends or even my siblings and mother trust my memories, but they have little choice but to go along, as those memories are so vividly recalled. Just this morning, my mother tried to dispute my memory of seeing her scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees on rubber pads.

Actually, Chazal did attach significance to the milestone birthdays. Seventy, they teach, signifies having attained a ripe old age (Pirkei Avos 5:25). Frankly, I don’t feel I’ve quite reached that point. True, vitamins, diet supplements, healthy green vegetables, and trainers have become an increasingly large Rosenblum budget item — along with birthday presents for grandchildren. And my walking partners and I do seem to be getting passed more frequently on our walks around Har Nof than in former times.

But I can still climb up and down four flights of stairs, without too much huffing and puffing, and get through my trainer’s paces, all of which involve standing on uneven surfaces while executing the exercises, which he assures me is good for my brain function and not just my balance. I hope he is right.