Me and the Bridge

I have been warned that writing about age and the ravages thereof can get pretty damned boring. But I will be brief and positive.

Last year, like the GG Bridge, I turned 75 and had a (mostly) great time in Palm Springs celebrating having reached that milestone. A couple of weeks ago John, the owner of the delicatessen around the corner from me, asked me how old I was. I told him the truth (as I am wont to do) and he and his lackeys marveled at how young I looked. Yeah, yeah, thinks I, but said thank you graciously.

Today, sitting out back on the porch, watering my swollen old ankles with (very) cold water from the hose, I thought, well, how old am I today? I’m still 75! I was 75 way back in October and, I’ll be darned, I still am! For some reason the span between 74 and 76 seems to be a good length of time and there is still quite a bit left of it. Maybe because the days have been long and lazy without very much excitement interrupting the flow, 75 just seems to just last and last. A lot of the squares in my engagement calendar are blank.

These thoughts were prompted by learning that my barber of many years has retired and, at 74, rather rickety--and definitely not one to be running with scissors or even waving them around my ears. So, despite my swollen humidity-wracked ankles I’m feeling pretty good about myself. 75 ain’t so bad.