In a little over a month I’ll be turning the big 6-0. I keep flipping that number over in my mind, examining every angle, but I can’t quite wrap it around the fact that I’m still alive and kicking, despite my best efforts to expire early.

Why should my survival surprise me that much? In my younger years I thought I had all the answers but I was a cauldron of emotions and confusion, recklessly leaping in and out of addictions and obsessions. I was, truth be told, a drama queen and a hopeless romantic, disappointed by what I saw as the banality of real life and trying to make up for that through excess and fantasy. But the gods that protect foolish young souls like mine must have been doing double duty, because I eventually, and improbably, got it all together.

I don’t look much the worse for wear, considering how carelessly I treated my body and mind from my 20s to the onset of middle age. OK, maybe my neck is beginning to resemble turkey wattle, an anatomical feature that looks decorative on a gobbler but disturbing on me. And my hair is ever-so-slowly turning gray, but it’s mostly still brown and behaves the way I want it to (it’s always been one of my best features). And my body? Not yet an ode to gravity’s success, sheer luck for someone who’s been an underachiever in the exercise department and generally sticks to hatha yoga and walking. It could be much worse.

Medically speaking, except for a minor few age-related aches and pains, to quote the late great James Brown, I feel good. I take no drugs, prescribed or illicit, except for the occasional aspirin. I swallow a few nutritional supplements only because in both my omnivore and vegan incarnations I’ve never trusted food to be as nutritious as advertised. Besides, my mother, an early health food fan (Carlton Fredericks was her guru), got me into the habit. I haven’t felt the need to see an M.D. in about a decade, only the dentist and optometrist. And I hardly even noticed menopause, which I like to attribute to my plant-based diet plus good genes.

As a teenager, for fun I enjoyed looking into the future and imagining what it would feel like to be 51 at the turn of the 21st century. That sounded ancient to me, an age far beyond my adolescent grasp, and I was sure I would be decrepit and senile if I even made it that far. Now I gaze back nostalgically from the other side and flatter myself that I can still pass for 51. Or maybe even 48 on a cloudy day!

Since I haven’t reached the minimum Social Security retirement age I don’t call myself a senior (although several local restaurants will give me a senior discount for lunch starting next month). Besides, I prefer the word “elder”. In traditional societies, the wisdom of elders is cherished by the other members of the village or tribe. But in our modern, youth-obsessed world, elders don’t get much respect. In fact, they’re often neglected, abused, hidden away, and/or drugged up and forced into a wait-to-die mode. It’s a frightening prospect, one that makes me determined to remain independent until the end.

Like most clueless young people, until well into my thirties I resented being told what to do by authority figures and those who, just because they were older, thought they knew more than omniscient little me. Now that I’m on the edge of elderhood, I’m clear about what I know (and don’t know); I’m not just faking it and hoping nobody notices. Thanks to the unique collection of experiences I’ve amassed over sixty years of living, the tables are turned. Now—oh joy!—I get to dole out free, unsolicited advice to anybody I want with impunity and experience the distinct pleasure of annoying the bejeezus out of them. And the world turns.

I remember back in the late 50s, one member of my extended family, a petite, aged Italian woman named Mary, developed potty mouth late in life. She would unleash a string of expletives and insults at family events and in public that you couldn’t believe came from her small mouth. Mary exasperated her devoted daughter Millie, who took care of her, but she didn’t care. She was a widow with nothing left to prove, nobody to impress, and the choice to be totally herself. I was scared and embarrassed by her at the time, having led a fairly sheltered life. But now I can’t help but admire her insistence on being her own person even if made others squirm. And yeah, you could argue that she had some kind of neurological problem (disinhibition disorder, as in a recent “House” episode?), but pathologizing what may be a normal variant of behavior is just too drearily medical.

Back to the near future: How bad can 60 be? I’m thinkin’ not bad at all. The fun part of aging is that the older you get, the less you have to lose and the more freedom to be the person you’ve been evolving into your entire life. Nobody expects old people to make sense, so you can operate outside the box. You can dress weird, talk trash, or be the sweetest little old lady ever. Whatever reflects your particular truth. That may freak out the younger folks, who think they have a monopoly on eccentric behavior, but that’s their problem. They’ve still got a long, bumpy road ahead of them and a lot of growing up to do. I don’t envy them. As for me, I’ve (nearly) arrived, baby! So watch out!