I am now seventy years old. My whole life seemed to follow a rather steady routine. For forty-three years, I worked at the same banksame desk, same chair, day in, day out. Once I retired, I realised how little had changed. I never married, never had children. I still live alone in the very same flat I rented when I was just twenty-nine.
People often used to ask me:
When are you going to settle down?
Dont you feel lonely?
What will you do when you get old?
And I always had the same answers:
Someday, when I meet the right person.
When I have more time.
When Ive saved enough money.
When
Always when.
Once I retired, I told myself: nows the time to travel, time to try new things, to finally start living.
Instead, the days drifted by, all looking much alike: wake up, breakfast, a glance at the morning news, a stroll to the shops, return home, telly, then bed.
Then, three months ago, I had a bit of a health scare. Nothing too grave, but the doctor told me:
Youre all right for seventy, but you do need to look after yourself. Get out, be active, enjoy yourself.
But go out where?
And with whom?
Last week, I found myself ambling by the park near my flat. Funny, Id walked past it countless times but never set foot inside. That afternoon, I spotted a man, maybe a few years older than me, painting at an easel. I wandered over for a closer look.
He was painting the trees, the pond, the ducks. It was hardly the work of a master, but it had a certain charm.
Do you like it? he asked, not turning round.
Yes, you paint rather well, I replied.
He chuckled, Not really. I only started last year. But I enjoy itit makes me happy.
You took up painting in your late sixties? I asked, surprised.
Seventy, he said. All my life I thought, One day, Ill give painting a try. Then one morning, I thoughtwhy not now? Ive already let seventy years slip by waiting for one day. I wont waste what time remains.
I thought about what hed said for the rest of that week.
Yesterday, I woke and looked at myself in the mirror: a seventy-year-old man whod spent more than forty years waiting for life to begin. Waiting for the perfect moment. Waiting for company. Waiting for what, exactly?
So, yesterday, I walked into a little music shop and bought myself a guitar. Id always fancied playing, always said, One day
And I signed up for an Italian course. Id always dreamt of visiting Italy, yet always told myself: Whats the point of travelling alone?
So I went ahead and booked a ticket to Rome. Ill go in four months, on my own. And thats quite all right.
This afternoon, I spent an hour strumming the guitar. I sounded dreadful. My fingers wouldnt co-operate in the slightestbut I laughed out loud at the racket echoing through the flat.
And suddenly, it dawned on me: Id spent seventy years waiting for someone elses permission, or for circumstances to align, before I truly started living. Waiting for the right partner, the right time, the right conditions.
But no one was ever going to hand me that permission. No one was ever going to knock on my door and say, Now youre allowed to be happy.
I may have ten years left, or twenty, or less. But whatever years remain, I will live them. I will play the guitar poorly. Ill mangle Italian phrases. Ill paint awkward pictures. Ill travel alone and, no doubt, get hopelessly lost.
And that will be wonderful.
Because, in the end, I dont want to look back and count all the things I never did while waiting for the perfect moment. I want to remember that I tried. That I truly lived. That I found happiness in my own, peculiar way.
You dont need someone by your side to start living.
You dont need to be young.
You dont need to be good at something to enjoy it.
You just need to decide that today is the day.
