My sister, who is 3.5 years older than I am, once told me that she began to really notice her age after 65.
I was 65 when she told me that. Now I’m 68, and I have found that she was quite correct. Or perhaps it was the power of suggestion.
Being 68 is not so old these days. But 100 years ago it was ancient. The life expectancy was 50 for American men in 1913. I’m glad those were not my times because my life only got good after turning 50.
It would have been like dying at the dinner table just as the crème brûlée was being served by the butler. You crave that dessert.
I once bounded from bed most mornings, but not anymore. I work up to it. I lie there and let the body come slowly to life. It takes a bit.
And I look at the sunrise.
I can bound, but I don’t want to. The flesh rebels. You must not ignite the rockets till all systems are good to go, as they say.
My mother, who died at 90, spent about 30 minutes every morning during her final decade waking up her components. She would lie in bed, and do stretching exercises that had been recommended by a doctor.
Sometimes I would sit on a chair and talk to her.
But I’m nowhere near 90, and I’m primed in three or four minutes.
The crème brûlée is still on my plate.