I turned 60 last summer on a glorious day with waves of stomach-churning excitement, which I’ve since decided was food poisoning. It was not a good birthday.

That was just salmonella, though. The actual number didn’t bother me, the way it doesn’t seem to bother most people I know. They might dread it, sure, but the big day comes and they eat some cake, and maybe it stays down and maybe it doesn’t.

It’s not a big deal.

There’s a finality to 60, though. There’s no nuance, no shading, no glittering semantics to finesse reality. You may turn 60 and live another 40 years, absolu...