My tattoo.

In 2023, I began a new ritual. Every morning, I write a number on my hand. It is the number of days until I turn eighty years old. The reason I chose eighty is because of a man I play tennis with in Michigan. When he was eighty, he was still more fit than many college kids and was giving me ten kinds of problems on the tennis court (I was 55). Inspired by his life approach and model of fitness, I committed to maintaining my current level of physical health (or an improved level) until I, too, am eighty.

When I began, the number was in the 9000s. A few days ago, it dropped below 8,400. It’s always a bit of a moment when you have to cycle one of the hundreds down. And you can imagine the mental hit I took when I dropped from the 9s to the 8s. On the positive side, the day that happened for me, I was en route to my hometown in Colorado for a few weeks of biking and hiking.

There are times I look at my hand and the number feels big. Other times it looks desperately small. In the end, this is the point of the exercise. To be grateful for what you have because it is all at once both generous and scant. Whatever my sense at any given moment, the practice is doing its job of making me aware of the day at hand, the only time I will ever, ever get to experience that numbered day.

And that leads me to my favorite facet of the ritual. In the morning, when I first write the four numbers, they are sharp, clean, crisp, just as are my hopes for the day. As the day progresses, the activities of life mar and fade the digits. By day’s end, the numerals are often hard to even make out. I love this. I love how the number wears away the same way the day does. When I wake the next morning, I have a nearly clean slate to write the next smaller number on, just as I have a clean set of hours before me.

People ask what I’ll do when I get to zero. The answer is, I don’t know. Reassess maybe. If I meet my goal and am still vibrant and active, I think that would merit a celebration. If I’m doing super-well, maybe add a year or two. The man who inspired this practice is now 82 and still taking it to me on the tennis court (I have heard it said that age and treachery beat youth and vigor every time). Even though he continues his impressive run, I’m hesitant to add years to my number. It feels like cheating, or being greedy at the least. You can find some examples of eighty-year-olds still murdering the game; you don’t find many eighty-five-year-olds with the same sort of command. So for now I’m holding at eighty. And I have every intention to make the most of every one of my numbered days.