Growing Old

"We're not old!" exclaims Phyllis, also 84. "We're here, we're alive, we can do things, we can travel, we're not old," she asserts. "Hmmm," is my response. I don't want to think of myself as old, but the evidence is there. Why does it take me so long to do just about anything? Why am I always losing my phone? Wy do my fingers ache? Why do I have temporary (for now, at least) memory lapses? And, speaking of my phone, why does it tell me I am at increased risk of falling? Worse, why are our relatives and friends suffering from various ailments and dying? That's the hard part, especially the ones we are losing bit by bit to dementia and its many forms. And yet, and yet . . . I'll speak for myself here. I am surrounded by loving family (families, actually, as our little clan has been expanded by the addition of Bruce's family, and Mary's). I am supported by a cadre of close friends from my childhood (Erie), from Penn State, and from my Bethesda Circle. I lead a full life with piano lessons, singing in a chorale, and Zoomed Spanish conversation. I am mobile enough to support other friends. And now I have a male friend who brings a special joy to me. Maybe Phylls is right: we're not (that) old!