My mother once said that ‘growing old was hell.’ I admit, my knees and hip are giving me trouble, and I’m not as flexible as I used to be, and I would welcome a good nap right now, but hell? It’s too interesting to be hell.
I find myself saying and doing all the things I said I wouldn’t when I was younger. Reminisce about old technologies and the music I loved as a child? Check. Complain that things aren’t like they used to be? Check. Complain about aches and pains? Check. I have, to my credit, never said “Get off my lawn” except in jest.
There are things I wanted to do when I was younger that I would not be caught dead doing today: skydiving, going on a rollercoaster, looking down great heights. Now I can’t bring myself to do these.
I’m less spontaneous than I used to be, more deliberate. More patient, which surprises me, because I’ve never been a patient person. Maybe it’s because I have survived everything.
Having survived everything, I have advice for the younger generation, something else I never thought I’d have: Don’t worry about aging. It’s not that bad.
Words Like Me 