If you are reading this in March 2015, this is the month that I officially stop being an immature dreamer and seeker after foolish pleasures. I am now 70.

They say wisdom comes with age, but I’m not so sure of that. On the other hand, I am quite certain of heartburn and hemorrhoids. But since geezers, traditionally, are supposed to be founts of profundity, I will spare you the litany of anatomical disintegration. Let’s just say that I have learned a thing or two.

First lesson: Life is anything but predictable. As a young boy, my dream of becoming a major league baseball player began giving way in my late teens to a fantasy of somehow being rich and famous and living in a mansion with a revolving bandstand and a view that looked down on the bright lights of the big city. Instead, at 20 I found myself looking down on a linoleum floor in a hospital room, paralyzed, strapped to a Stryker frame.

Second lesson: Fantasy is easier than reality. It took me five years to get over the need to escape the reality of paralysis, and then I wasn’t really over it. I just cooled down a little on drinking and drugs. I found in time that what was really bothering me was not my everyday reality, it was the loss of the dreams I once had for my future. Even worse, it was the loss of the ability to dream. At my lowest point, I could not imagine a future.

Third lesson: Confronting everyday reality gradually leads to regaining a future. It took about 10 more years of striving and failing and striving and failing again to get comfortable with my life. By this time I had quit or lost a number of minimum wage jobs, gone back to college to get a graduate degree, and started teaching at a community college.

Fourth lesson: Being grateful is good for your heart. When things go well, be thankful. Bank it and let it grow with interest. Make up with God. When things don’t go well, you can look back and remember that all-important turning point in your life and feel grateful that you began to recapture your ability to dream.

Fifth lesson: Laughter really is the best medicine. When we take ourselves too seriously, it’s just another way of feeding our egos, and we know, deep down, that the ego is a bottomless pit. For instance, if I take this list of lessons too seriously and really think that I am spouting wisdom that will change lives for the better just because I am now 70, I am full of it. If I am so wise, why haven’t I figured out how to stop crapping my pants?

Sixth and most important lesson: Life is not complete without love. I love my life because I love my wife. My daughter. My grandsons. My job. My co-workers and friends. My neighbor who tore down my fence — the prick.

Seventh and final lesson: Sometimes I can be an ass.