Impulse

I’ve always been the intro­spec­tive type. Even as a kid, I’d spend time brood­ing over what life was all about and what role I wanted to have in it. At the ten­der young age of 10, I reached my first con­clu­sion: the per­fect age to be in life is 7 or 70.

When you’re 7 or 70, you can act how­ever you want with impunity. People expect you to say what­ever comes to mind and don’t expect you to make sense. You can be ornery one minute and happy the next. You can do a lit­tle dance in a pub­lic place; peo­ple won’t even look at you funny. Sing off-key and they smile at you. Wear bright col­ors that should never be seen together. Have a big old ice cream cone after lunch. Laugh hys­ter­i­cally at the dumb­est jokes.
When you’re 7 or 70, you can do what­ever you want. You can play all day long. You can hang out with your friends any­time you want. When you’re 7, you’re mobile — you can ride a bike and are old enough to go pretty far with­out super­vi­sion. When you’re 70, you’ve got a car and you’re young enough to drive around with­out peo­ple telling you where to go. (And you can drive your car as fast as you can ride your bike).
When you’re 7 or 70, you have much fewer cares. You don’t have to worry about school, work, or mort­gage pay­ments. No meet­ings; no to-do lists. You’re never on the crit­i­cal path.
The 62 years between are just savor­ing your child­hood and look­ing for­ward to retire­ment. Sort of like re-runs while you’re wait­ing for the new sea­son to start.
OK, that may be a lit­tle sim­pli­fied, but heck, I was 10.