Aging Isn’t For Sissies
I am 72 years old. Up until my 60s, I looked forward to every birthday, but when I was about to turn seventy, all bets were off. The good news is, I now know why.
My mother died at the age of 77, which, come on now, isn’t old. My mother’s cause of death doesn’t at all reflect my health status. Mom had three health conditions that adversely affected her quality of life for many, many years. I don’t have any of those conditions, but when I turned 70, I saw my life as one that was hanging in the balance.
Over the past couple of years, I have reconciled to the fact that I do not fear that I will die as Mom did. Nope! But I still don’t like being in this particular decade of my life. Perhaps I will get over it, and, quite frankly, I hope I do, because feeling averse to this decade is counterintuitive to living in the moment, which is what I truly endeavor to do. If you read last week’s post, you know that I’m trying to do better at living and accepting my age. But it’s not always an easy task, is it? But “easy” isn’t what I’m demanding out of life either; rather, I simply want to refine my ongoing attempt to accept what is.
And there you have it, unapologetically me in a nutshell.
Living: the ultimate team sport 