Wallowing in the dirt

I'm turned 60 years of age. I'm surprised. It kinda rushed in on me. Last thing I remember was sitting in the dirt, digging with a stick; mom was in the kitchen, busy doing mom-like things, but keeping a watchful eye. It was a glorious sunny day too, with not a breath of air, as Cabbage White butterflies flitted fervently, and bees waggle-danced and extracted pollen from the wild flowers (dad was never a gardener). Funny isn't it, how our childhood days are remembered like this... golden... idyllic...

Then... of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, here I am... a sixty year old. What happened? Where did the intervening years go?

Maturity. There's a word for you. I try not laugh as I apply it to myself. I'm not even sure I know what it means, though I do know there's a general social expectation: it's a pity my hair isn't grey, or better still, snow white? And to keep in character, maybe a little bad posture wouldn't go amiss, just a slight stoop? That would be a good start; t'would complement well the image of pottering in the garden, or expertly doing those little jobs around the house that granddads do so well. And we all know... this is done to kill time. If not for this pottering and hammer wielding, I'd be in suspended animation, coming alive only when the grandkids visit. Maturity is a time where satisfaction comes from selflessness only...

I must be doing something wrong.