Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be.
sang poet Robert Browning. He must have been dreaming. Don't let me discourage you but being old is not that much fun. It is, to cite the time-worn cliche, not for sissies. William Wordsworth saw it as
Old age serene and bright and lovely as a Lapland night.
That's a pretty picture and perhaps it fits some exalted few but it seems to me that for us ordinary mortals, "The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be", although considerably less lyrical, is a far more accurate description of the very elderly.
I have climbed a long way and find myself now at the top of a mountain of years, on the brink of the jumping off place. Periodically I am reminded of this by postal messages from crematoriums that hint, ever so delicately, that perhaps it's time to make Arrangements. The only one I've made so far is what's known as a Living Will. I don't want to be kept alive by artificial means. There will probably be nothing recyclable left of me but if there is, anyone is welcome to it. My health is quite good but I've had two cancerous tumors removed and have been told that there may be more. What bothers me most at the moment is my failing eyesight and loss of manual dexterity. It takes me more and more time to perform simple tasks but I must keep on doing them or I'll lose momentum and therefore what independence I have. Reading is my greatest pleasure and I do much of it on my Kindle with enlarged print.
I need a certain amount of exercise so I do a bit of work in the garden, mostly pruning because it doesn't require bending over. Bending is what's hardest for this old gray mare. I have trouble straightening up again. Only a few years ago I was still able to indulge in the luxury of crawling around in the dirt, weeding and putting in bedding plants. Outside the house I am reduced to the ignominy of a walker but inside I manage to get around in a sort of tottery waddle, putting my feet down carefully. It's not graceful, but it gets me where I want to go. No longer can I read newsprint but the computer supplies me with all the news I need. I enjoy blogging but feel guilty when I don't reply to comments. It's difficult for me to do this because I work very slowly and run out of steam fast. Here I take refuge in my age and hope people will be tolerant.
I don't care about reaching the century mark but national politics are tremendously interesting and 2112 is bound to be packed with intrigue and machinations. In spite of the huge deficit and national debt, much of which was caused by W's foolhardy policies, economic conditions appear to be improving. I am convinced that if the president had white skin, the tea party movement might never have begun. Don't tell me that racism isn't at the mainspring for this congregation of dissatisfied zanies. The election year is going to be awful--no holds barred, knock down, drag out and dirty. What I hope for and want desperately to see is President Obama being elected for a second term. The current crop of potential GOP candidates is distinctly lackluster with the exception of that swollen ego, Mr. Trump who has as much right to be president as the man in the moon. Ms. Bachman bats her eyes and rarely shuts up but it's doubtful that she'll go far. I await next year with trepidation and passionate interest.
Although much of world and national news is distressing and even horrifying to read about and there are constant instances of man's inhumanity to man, many old people like me keep up with it. Our lives may not resemble one poet's rosy dream or the other's portrait of tranquility but they're certainly not boring with so much to observe.