Tall people know they’re tall.
Short people know they’re short.

I’m old.
And I know I’m old.

“But you’re only as old as you feel.”

Bite me.

I’m old.
And I know it.

But stupid people…
Do they know they’re stupid?

MY GOD — that’s an entire BecauseJimSays post right there.
It practically writes itself.

But back to me. Because… of course.

I turned 61 last month.

And that’s just…
Ugh.

See, 60?
60 was a milestone.

60 felt like:
“I made it.”

There should’ve been a banner.
Maybe a cake.
Possibly a marching band.

But 61?

61 just shows up…
Unannounced.
Uninvited.

And sits there.

Like a lump.

A lump of clay.
A lump of 61-year-old clay.

Much like my hair…
Turning gray.

And yes — I appreciated the Irish-themed restaurant throwing that parade for me in early March.
Way too generous.

Side note — not sure why the color scheme was green, but I let it slide.

At 61, you start reflecting.

How did I get here?
What did I do right?
What did I do wrong?

And more importantly…

What now?

Because things change.

I’ve got multiple pairs of shoes.
Not because I’m stylish.

Because my feet now require a strategy.

The shoe-of-the-day is a decision.
A calculation.
A risk assessment.

My feet are old.

And in hindsight…
I abused them.

Running 10–12 miles in racing shoes for a decade.
No cushioning.
No support.

Just vibes and bad decisions.

Young Me thought:
“I’m always gonna be young and fast.”

Old Me would like a word with Young Me.

Actually — Old Me would like a chair first.
Then a word.

Okay – a sweater would be nice too.

Because BigJimmy back then?
He wasn’t BigJimmy.

He was BigCareless.
Maybe even BigStupid.

These days, I don’t run 10–12 miles.

These days…
I don’t even get on the ground
without first planning my exit strategy.

This is not a joke.

This is a process.

Which brings me to my hammer.

My trusty hammer.

It’s old.
Like me.

I don’t even use it for hammering anymore.

I use it to get up.

Perfect handle.
Solid weight.
Stands upright like a loyal friend saying,
“Come on… I got you.”

At 61, you appreciate that kind of loyalty.

I’ve even changed my mornings.

Sure — I can jump out of bed and go.

But why?

I get up early.
I make coffee.
And I sit.

I sip.
I think.
I exist.

Because at 61…

You earn that time.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure:

Tall people know they’re tall.
Short people know they’re short.

And me?

I’m old.

And I know it.

• That Guy