“I can hardly think I am entered this day into the seventy-eighth year of my age. By the blessing of God, I am just the same as when I entered the twenty-eighth. This hath God wrought, chiefly by my constant exercise, my rising early, and preaching morning and evening.”

These words, written in 1780 and reprinted in the Oxford Book of Ages, come from the great Methodist preacher John Wesley. They suggest a person of great vigor and a strongly positive outlook on life. No wonder this man of faith had such an impact on 18th century England and on later times and other places

As someone who became authoritative late last month on the subject of entering the 78th year of life, I am a reliable critic of what Wesley wrote in his journal. In that role I dispute the faqmous evangelist’s claim of being the same 50 years previously. Clearly he was indulging in hyperbole to indicate his high spirits on his 77th birthday.

No such claim will come from me. Otherwise, why should I be rapidly approaching Woody Allen’s situation of having a doctor for every part of his body? No, I cannot boast of having the same resiliency that I had in 1955.

Running from first base to third in my long-established Sunday softball games also reminds me of changes. Why else do I arrive at my destination panting? And why is the batter at my heels, approaching the same base?

If Wesley is referring to the continuities in his life, then I am with him. Fortunately, I do recognize in the 27-year-old me some of the same traits that I own now. Skepticism, orneriness, a certain curmudgeonliness, and other such virtues continue to adorn my life as they did five decades ago.

Of course, I agree with Wesley about the value of exercise, and attribute to its daily use whatever vitality I have salvaged from the wear and tear of life. What relish to swim indoors each day, especially when the temperature outside reaches 90-degrees!

As to rising early, I have recently decided it is overrated. I have taken my leave from the abundant ranks of the sleep-deprived in favor of the eight-hour-a-night cohort. Maybe early rising worked for Wesley, but I now suspect that more sleep would have enabled him to live longer.

Preaching I have given up, except when carried away in columns like this one. Wesley probably went on for hours in his sacred harangues, something which I rejoice at neither giving nor receiving.

My source for age anecdotes moves to the 20th century for one about Sir George Sitwell of the celebrated British literary family. Described by his doctor as an “old man of seventy-seven years of age,” Sitwell is introduced fussing about his health.

His son Osbert leaves his bed-ridden father for an errand. On returning, he finds the elder Sitwell still in bed, looking depressed and wondering how long the doctor thinks he will last. About 20 years, the son tells him.

“At this he suddenly jumped out of bed with an agility that would have done credit to a man half his age, and said: ‘I must dress now.’ That night he came down for dinner.”

Throwing off self-pity always strikes me as an ideal for any age. In a funk, George Sitwell hears news good enough to propel him out of bed. Dressing for dinner must have further upped his morale, the exterior making an impact on his inner being.

None of my many doctors tells me how long I’m going to last. Fortunately, they know better, that is they don’t know at all. I am glad to have outlived the infallibility of the medical profession and hope, one day, to be granted the same satisfaction by the ecclesiastical profession.

Sir George’s dinner was at night. It may have been thin British gruel, for all I know, but it was consumed at a gracious hour. I am still afflicted by memories of feeling logy after family dinners at one o’clock in the afternoon. They seem as outmoded as going to the movies at any old time, even in the middle of the film, as we all used to do.

Though 77 does not hold much distinction as a birthday, it does have a kind of alliterative ring to it. In ancient times, a mystical aura would probably have clung to this number. After all, seven was special, so having two of them strung together would presumably have qualified as a mysterious power.

In the modern world, only the numbers ending in zero or five are thought powerful. That’s why people edge close to despair on reaching 30. In a worldly culture like ours, you attach secular meaning to numbers that otherwise seem arbitrary and nonsensical.

For me, 77 feels just fine. I even like the steam-engine sound of it.

Richard Griffin