The Sixties

I had an unsettling experience yesterday. While getting ready to go on a trip with my husband, I suddenly developed chest pain. Not the pressing squeezing type you hear about but enough that it caught my attention. And it lasted for almost half an hour. Accompanied by some shortness of breath and some dizziness.
Okay, better pay attention.
So we cancelled the plane reservations, cancelled the hotel, cancelled the car. Called the people we were supposed to visit and off we went to the Emergency Room. Of course, by that time I was feeling pretty good but we went through the whole examination process anyway.
Had the EKG.
Normal.
Had blood work.
Normal.
Doctor comes in and says, "We're going to admit you for precautionary reasons."
No, I feel fine. I don't want to stay.
And then he said it.
"When women are in their sixties, we have to err on the side of caution. This could be serious."
IN THEIR SIXTIES?!
He didn't actually say that to me to my face, did he?
For one thing, I only turned 60 last month. To me, that still doesn't qualify as "in my sixties", okay? Let's get that straight right here and now, Doctor- I- have- underwear- older- than- you. I'm just getting the hang of this sixty thing and you're no help.
Then, I started to think about that word.
Sixties.
Maybe it was the nitropaste they slapped on me but I started to free associate and wondered how that word had now become the enemy. There was a time when I loved the "sixties". I revelled in being a child of the sixties.
The sixties were good times. Revolution, the best music, freedom.
I came of age in the sixties.
And now I'm just feeling aged.
As it turned out, my heart was fine and I was sent home that night when my cardiologist came in. He took off the nitropaste, said I didn't need it.
I had a horrible headache from it and some new thoughts.
I guess I need to come to terms with the sixties, then and now.
Yup, I'll get right on that -maybe tomorrow.