I’m not old. What the hell is old anyway? I’ve been on this Earth for six decades which seems like a long time. But consider how many years I haven’t been on this Earth: all of recorded history before my date of birth. And I’m pretty sure I wasn’t around before recorded history although, of course, there’s no record of that.
You want to irritate me? Offer me a seat on the bus. Tell me I look good for my age. Call my years golden.
I don’t want to hear it.
I spend my days ignoring aches and pains, doing my work, pretending it matters. Just as I’ve always done. When I makes a mistake, I try to cover it up. If that doesn’t work, I say “I’m sorry.” What I really want to say is, “It doesn’t matter. Get over it. Idiot.”
The only change I’ve noticed with age—not that I’m old—is less tolerance for nonsense. And pretty much every rule and concept upon which civilization is based is nonsense. You’ll learn that for yourself. Give it time.
When I actually do get old—I’m guessing at about 85—what’ll I miss? I won’t miss going to work. I won’t miss small talk. I surely won’t miss driving, especially commuting. I won’t miss sex because I’ll still be doing it.
As long as you’re alive, there’s nothing to miss. It’s all here, right in front of you.