Im 67 now. My life has always been built around routine. I worked for 42 years at the same banksame desk, same chair, year after year. I retired a little while ago. I never married. No children. I still live alone in the very flat I first rented when I was 28.
People have always asked me:
So, when are you getting married?
Dont you feel lonely?
What will you do when youre older?
And I always gave the same replies:
One day, when I meet the right person.
When I have more time.
When Ive saved up a bit more money.
When…
Always when.
When I finally retired, I thought: Now Ill travel, Ill learn new things, Ill finally start living. But the days went on, and nothing really changed: wake up, breakfast, the news, a newspaper, a trip to the shops, back home, television, bed.
About three months ago I had a bit of a health scare. It wasnt anything serious, but my GP told me, Youre doing alright, but you are 67. Look after yourself, walk a bit more, try to get out and about.
Go out… where, I thought? With whom?
Last week as I was walking past the local park near my flatsomewhere Id never actually entered, just walked byI spotted a man, around my age, painting at an easel. I wandered over for a closer look.
He was painting the trees, the little lake, a pair of ducks. It wasnt perfect, but it was lovely in its own way.
Do you like it? he asked without looking up.
Yes, you paint quite well, I replied.
I dont paint well, he laughed. I only started a year ago. But I enjoy it. Makes me happy.
You took up painting in your sixties? I said, surprised.
At 68, he answered. Id always said I wished I could paint. One day I just thought: why not now? Ive already squandered 68 years on one day. Im not wasting the rest on that.
I couldnt stop thinking about that all week.
Yesterday, I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror. A 67-year-old man whod spent 40 years waiting for life to begin. Waiting for the perfect moment. Waiting for company. Waiting for… well, I didnt even know what.
So yesterday, I went into a music shop and bought myself a guitar. Id always wanted to learn. Always said one day.
I also signed up for an Italian evening class. Id always dreamed of visiting Italy, but always thought: Whats the point in going on my own?
And I booked a plane ticket to Rome. In four months time. On my own. And thats absolutely fine.
This afternoon, I practised on the guitar for an hour. I sound dreadful. My fingers dont go where I want them to at all. But I laughed out loud in my flat at the racket I was making.
It hit me then: Id spent 67 years waiting for someone to give me permissionor for the stars to alignbefore I could start living. Waiting for the perfect partner, the right moment, all the right conditions.
But no ones going to give you that permission. No ones going to knock on your door and tell you, Now youre allowed to be happy.
Im 67. Maybe Ive got ten years left, maybe twenty, maybe less. But Im determined to live them. Ill play the guitar badly. Ill mangle my Italian. Ill paint terrible pictures. Ill travel alone and probably get lost.
And that will be brilliant.
Because, as I look back, I dont want to remember all the things I didnt do while I was waiting for the perfect moment. I want to remember that I gave it a go. That I lived. That I found happiness in my own way.
You dont need company to start living.
You dont have to be young.
You dont need to be good at something to enjoy it.
You just need to decide that today is the day. Thats what Ive learned, at last.
