Most of us enjoy ketchup on our burgers and fries. I know I do. But I never realized ketchup might be a metaphor for a life well lived.

I never wanted to grow older. I avoided it at all costs. I disliked turning 30 and then 40 and so on.

Now I realize that was all pretty silly.

You can’t stop time. The years move on, and with them so does the number that defines your age.

You can spend your 36th year wishing you were still 35, but that accomplishes nothing.

Why aspire to something that can never be again? Better put, why waste time on such things, when time is so very, very precious?

If you are 36, the only thing you can realistically aspire to is being the best 36 and possibly the best 37 you can be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And that is enough.

It is brilliant and realistic and perfect.

If only we’d recognize these truths at 29, or 39 or even 49.

Instead, we all want to be young. Forever. At least I did.

I aspired to the whole youngness theory for decades. I believed my numerical age defined me, and I attempted to run from it.

I’ve never been a good runner.

Then I moved to a community dominated by retirees and I witnessed their strength and resilience and vigor and vitality. It doesn’t matter if you are 55 or 85, everyone in my neighborhood seems to subscribe to the same philosophy: live life to the fullest.

It has been eye-opening.

These people who remember a life filled with the realities of the Viet Nam War, moon landings, and the black and white versions of Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy and Alfred Hitchcock movies are still living out a joyful and action-packed life every hour of every day, and I couldn’t be more inspired.

But back to ketchup.

Most of us have experienced a ketchup bottle that is no longer full, in fact, by most standards, it might be described as nearly empty. But, empty or full is irrelevant because those last bits of ketchup taste just as rich and just as satisfying as the first ones out of the bottle.

Maybe even more so, because when you understand your ketchup bottle no longer holds an unlimited amount of the good red sauce, you savor what is left. You appreciate every drop and you make sure none of it goes to waste. You become intent on squeezing every last bit of ketchup from the bottle.

And that perfectly describes so many people I’ve recently had the pleasure of calling friends. They may not have a lifetime ahead of them, but they are enjoying and savoring every moment, every day.

They are playing sports. They are playing cards. They are volunteering at the food shelf. They are sitting beside the pool. They are swimming laps. They are writing poetry. They are fostering abandoned pets. They are creating art. They are acting with the local theater group. They are pursuing lifelong hobbies. They are finding new life passions. They are living and they are loving it.

They are incredible.

Age is only a number. We’ve all heard this time and time again. Still, we tend to battle against that number. I’ve learned the hard way that numbers are inconsequential.

My husband died at 56. It was his number.

I play sports with people who are 85 and they are still going strong. They haven’t yet come upon their number.

My takeaway from all of this? Quit worrying about the numbers. We all are like a bottle of ketchup. We don’t know when our tomato saucy sauce will run out, but we might as well have fun during the run.

I am honored to know quite a few people who are living this out loud, and I love that I am able to see it up close and personal.

I never wanted to get older. I didn’t think there was anything good to be said about it.

Now I know I was wrong. Living in maturity is awesome, as long as you keep on living - really living - every day, understanding the importance of squeezing every last bit of ketchup out of your bottle.

Which I now do. Most certainly. Every single day. Until I can’t anymore.

We should all be so fortunate.

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at

slicescolumn@gmail.com.