In the classic musical Oliver! Fagin muses, “What happens when I’m seventy?” Well, Fagin, my dear, I don’t have to “muse” about it anymore, because in a few days—Sunday, to be exact—I officially become a septuagenarian. Holy crap, how did that happen!?!?

Sure, okay, I like to buy into all of that “Seventy is the new fifty,” “Fifty is the new thirty” stuff. (I even heard, “200 lbs. is the new 130 lbs.” Right…) But the reality is, I’ve been on this planet for seven decades. I was alive when Babe Ruth was alive. And Edgar Rice Burroughs, my favorite writer. And some guys that participated in the Civil War, for crying out loud! It can make a person crazy just thinking about it. (Yeah, you’re right, I gotta stop thinking about it.)

But after all is said and done, one fact supersedes everything else: “I’m still here, chief.” And dang, that sure as hell beats the alternative.

Going back a few supposedly significant birthdays, I can hardly remember a thing about turning FORTY. My life sucked for a number of reasons, and by extension, so did my health. Jim Morrison once said something about no one getting out of here alive, and back then I thought that about me. I’m not kidding.

But later on in my forties I turned my life around. I got a job as a feature writer/editor for a small newspaper, a gig that lasted fourteen years. I got into heavy-duty bicycling, and rides of fifty to one hundred miles were commonplace. I established a successful business as a writing coach, teacher, and editor that lasted right up until my retirement last year. And most important, I met Jacqueline—my soul mate, the woman of my dreams, my amazing life partner. So with all of this going for me…

…I had no problem turning FIFTY. What I remember most was a surprise party that a bunch of my students and clients threw for me. Lots of funny cards, including one where at age fifty a guy would need helium balloons to hold up his johnson. And gag gifts, of course, one creative friend putting a bicycle horn and a rearview mirror on a cane. I loved all of it, but at the same time I recall thinking, What’s the big deal? I feel great.

Now, that’s not to say all was wonderful. Life provides everyone with their share of trials and tribulations, tossing roadblocks and speed bumps along the way. (Are you digging all these metaphors?) But we met them all head-on, and in what seemed the blink of an eye…

…it became time to turn SIXTY. And when that happened, I celebrated big-time. Why? Because prior to me, no male Sirota ever made it out of his fifties. One uncle didn’t even get to forty. I carried a scary legacy, and for a long time prior to the big day I even stressed about it—which was pretty stupid, ya think?

But three years later I wondered if I was destined to make it out of my sixties. That’s when I had open-heart, quadruple bypass surgery, and with what they had discovered the previous day in my arteries, the surgeon said that I was lucky to have even made it to the operating table. A real “HOLY CRAP!” moment if there ever was one.

But you learn from life experiences such as that—or at least, you should learn. And boy, did I ever! I learned to cherish every day, and to not look past that day but take everything it gives me. Losing two great friends during my sixties, both barely older than me, made that even clearer.

The Campo train.

And so I come to SEVENTY. How do I choose to spend the day? Easy; with those I love the most. My family and I are headed out to Campo, a small town east of San Diego near the U.S.-Mexico border, and taking a ride on a vintage train. We’ve done it before, and we love it. And I will NOT think about what I’m going to do the day after that, or the following weekend.

To paraphrase my favorite fictional Native American, Thomas Builds-the-Fire: “Sometimes it’s a good day to die, and sometimes it’s a good day to turn seventy!”