Do I Have To Grow Up Now That I'm Sixty? Questions from an Aging Gen X-er

April 13, 2026

Author of the Month

Michael Cline, Author and Freelance Writer

Tom O'Connor, Publisher

Being a 1965 early Gen-X guy, I've always been a mix of endless teenage angst, mild confusion, child-like foolishness, extreme resilience, and a DIY feral battle cry. Most of my life lacked direction. Now, after six decades on this spinning, fragile rock, I'm finally trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Is it possible to never grow up and still reach a ripe old respectable age? A part of me thinks that it is possible, but another part questions the sanity of anyone who would believe that it can be done.

I can't be the only person on the planet who has hit six decades of life and still feels like they're a teenager. Not in the "life is awesome and I know everything" kind of way, but more in the "I have no idea what I'm doing" kind of way. Obviously, I must have some idea of what I'm doing, but I've never had a solid career or much confidence in knowing what in the holy heck I was doing.

My childhood was not kind. It was chaotic, traumatic, and devoid of happy memories of playing catch with dad. He left when I was a year old and died ten years later. Mom followed him seven years after his death. I'm sure this had something to do with my endless wanderings in search of stability.

Somehow, I endured a testament to the human spirit's resilience in the face of adversity.

My twenties started strong. I fulfilled a dream of moving to NYC and secured a job in Midtown and a modest apartment on St. Marks Place in the East Village. Unfortunately, the unresolved issues from my childhood led me down a dangerous path, first with heroin and later with alcohol. Somehow, I survived both.

After a harrowing youth and difficult early adulthood, I never quite felt as if I had grown up. I worked in the printing industry for two decades, an endless stream of long hours for low pay that perfectly matched my low self-esteem. However, I've always been able to hide my blues with child-like enthusiasm and occasional silliness.

Despite the passing years, I've always maintained a youthful spirit. I've been blessed with good genes and am often mistaken for being younger than I actually am. And who wouldn't take that as a compliment? After all, who doesn't want to look younger than they are?

Throughout my entire adult life, I've never seen age as a number, as long as it didn't apply to me. I've been involved in many different cliques and scenes, and I've never had any issues with someone being too young or too old. This was especially true during the ten seasons I worked at the New York Renaissance Faire. After hours, those of us working there would get together to hang out, and it wasn't uncommon to be sitting around a fire where the youngest would be seventeen and the oldest deep into their fire.

I've carried that type of companionship up to this day. I don't care if you're twenty years old or eighty years old. If I enjoy your company, I don't see you as an age; I see you as a friend who is either a bit older or a bit younger than I am.

Teenagers have always enjoyed hanging out with me in appropriate settings, whether they're my friends' children or just random kids I've met at an event. Maybe it's because I treat them as equals, or it's because I still think I'm a teenager.

I've never had much of an easy time when I've been relegated to watching friends' kids. Whether it's a "can you watch the kids while I take a quick shower" or "take the kids to the park for an hour," it's almost always a laughable event. Children rarely take me seriously, and no matter what boundaries or rules I try to enforce, they look at me cross-eyed and go back to whatever it is they aren't supposed to be doing.

Many years ago, I was visiting a friend who lived on a bustling street. We were sitting outside, and his six-year-old daughter picked up a rock and threw it at a passing car. Her father gently scolded her, telling her that she can't throw rocks at cars. A few minutes later, he excused himself to use the bathroom and headed inside, leaving me with his rock-throwing daughter.

The very second my buddy was indoors, she picked up a rock and hurled it towards a car.

"Honey," I said with what I thought was an appropriate tone of authority, "your father said not to throw stones at the cars."

She casually turned around and, with the most matter-of-fact voice, said, "No, it's okay, my dad's inside and can't see what I'm doing."

Just as in all my prior and future experiences with kids, she saw me as someone with no say over what she would or would not do.

The Aging Process

It wasn't until a few years ago, when I moved from the States to Barcelona, that I suddenly felt my age. While still looking years younger than my actual age, I finally noticed the wrinkles and lines on my face one day as I rinsed my face in the bathroom sink. I had known that they were there for years, but for whatever reason, they now looked deeper and darker than before.

Getting out of bed now requires an almost mandatory but subtle grunt or groan. Despite weekly yoga lessons and daily walks around the neighborhood, I tire much more easily than I used to. I know this is part of the aging process, but I thought it would come when my life was winding down.

Heck, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

People still tell me that I look much younger than I am. I've been told it's a combination of still having thick, long hair, all my teeth, a relatively flat stomach, and a youthful air I exude. It's true; sometimes I still act like a kid, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that.

Do I have to grow up now that I'm sixty? 

I don't have to, and maybe that's how one stays young. Being perpetually slightly confused about life and not caring about it may be the true fountain of youth. Either way, I'm not changing who I am, how I act, or who I hang out with. We may not have to grow up.

If you enjoyed this, you should check out one of the two books I've written. My Adventures in Tuva covers a lifelong love of a place no one's ever heard of, and New York City Junky Days chronicles my life in Manhattan's East Village.

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Michael Cline can be reached at Michaelcline2323@gmail.com

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