Performing Without a Countdown Clock

After hearing someone casually announce their professional countdown, I started questioning the language we use to sideline ourselves as we age.

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I was on a Zoom workshop recently—camera on, coffee in hand—when the speaker casually dropped this line:“I’m 63 years old, and I have about ten years left before I stop doing what I’m doing.”

Record scratch. Ten years left? Before what—the authorities arrive? Before his Wi-Fi gets shut off? Before someone gently escorts him into a museum labeled Formerly Useful Humans?

I completely lost the thread of his presentation. My brain went straight to Logan’s Run, that 1970s sci-fi movie where people are ceremoniously eliminated at 30 for the good of society. Suddenly I wasn’t on Zoom—I was picturing a countdown clock hovering over his head. Carousel will begin shortly.

No Expiration Date on Performing

It got me thinking: why do we do this to ourselves? Why, at a certain age, do we start talking like we’re yogurt past the expiration date? “I’m old.”“I’m a senior citizen.”“I guess it’s time to retire.”

Retire from what? Being curious? Being funny? Being interested in things? From performing, creating, showing up, and taking up space? Is there a corporate memo that goes out at 60 that says, Please power down your personality?

A Masterclass in Continuing

The timing was especially rude because later that same day, my friend Dale sent me a YouTube video of Barbara Eden, who is 93 years old and cheerfully talking about her workout routine. Ninety-three. She wasn’t whispering. She wasn’t apologizing for existing. She wasn’t saying, “Well, you know, at my age…” She was just there, glowing, moving her body, living her life—basically reminding the rest of us to sit down and drink some water. So now I have whiplash. On one hand, a man in his early sixties announcing his professional expiration date like a library book. On the other, Miss I Dream of Jeannie at 93 saying, Hold my protein shake.

Maybe the problem isn’t age. Maybe it’s the language. Maybe the real danger zone isn’t getting older—it’s deciding you’re done. Because once you declare yourself finished, life has a way of agreeing with you.

And frankly, if there’s a countdown clock over my head, I’d like to ignore it. Or at least bedazzle it.