"Act your age!"

It's an admonition my brothers and I heard from our parents more than once: "Act your age!"
It was usually when we were fidgeting, fighting, shrieking, or indulging in "bathroom talk" that Mom or Dad or both would suggest our behavior would be more appropriate for a child considerably younger than we currently were -- that a 7-year-old should be more civilized than a 2-year-old.
After six decades of life, and with both my parents gone on to their eternal reward, I no longer hear anybody tell me, right out loud, to "act your age." But the message is out there, and it's not just aimed at kids.
If anything, it's aimed more strongly at sexagenarians, septuagenarians, octogenarians, nonagenarians and centenarians.
On the one hand, we're told that so-called middle-aged people should have the physical and mental vitality that used to be reserved, in popular perception, for adults much less mature than we are. Fifty (or is it 60?) is the new 30. And 70 (or is it 80?) is the new 50.
Newspapers, magazines and Facebook memes are full of stories about people my age and older tackling athletic challenges, embarking on new careers, taking risks. Hey, I enjoy those stories, too.
But taken together, those stories' message is this: People are not supposed to experience the winding down, and the declines in health and mobility, that used to be considered a normal part of aging.
And if people don't feel 30 when they're 50 or 60, then there's something wrong with them, and society and health care professionals should educate them (read "shame them") for not acting their age.
With the recent suicides of designer Kate Spade (55) and TV food-travel personality Anthony Bourdain (61), it's come to the attention of national media that the age group experiencing the fastest growth in the rate of suicide is my age group -- the "middle-aged" demographic cohort, between ages 50 and 65.
I do not and cannot know the demons that plagued Spade and Bourdain, but I do know this: As I entered my 60s, I experienced a kind of stage fright that I don't remember feeling when I embarked on my 20s, 30s, 40s and 50s.
"I've never been 60 before," I once confessed to one or both of the Dans on my physical therapy team. "I don't know how to be 60." (Why am I asking guys in their 30s about this, anyway?)
TV cosmetics commercials, "People" magazine and other entities tell me it's not acceptable, at my age or even decades older, to experience things like wrinkles, dark spots, gray hair, or any sort of infirmity that used to be considered "age-related."
And truth be told, it's not acceptable to me, either. I don't want my body or my mind to decline. The minute I stop growing, stop evolving and stop changing is the moment I stop living.
I've found, however, that being 60 -- even more than being 30, 40, 50 or however old you are when the greeting card companies come out with "over the hill" products aimed at people your age -- is a challenging balance.
On one hand, I enjoy my body, and enjoy exercising my body, far more now than I did when I was younger.  And I remain open, if not eager, to trying new things and learning new skills.
On the other hand, I think it's healthy to acknowledge that my history is likely much more extensive than my future, and that my body is, at least in some ways, beginning its inevitable decline and decay. My left knee, with its worn-out cartilage, has already been consigned to medical waste. The rest of my body will inevitably follow.
Meanwhile, I'll hold onto my place on life's stage, and try not to show my stage fright -- maybe even improvise a little, as I show the world what "60" looks like to me.