On my last post I commented on how old I look. As I said, I had not seen a picture of myself for a couple of years and I don’t look at mirrors except in passing. Like Trump, I hardly feel my age at all – except for a lack of stamina and some creaky joints.
The thing is, we all age incrementally and are not conscious of the age changes that others who have not seen us for a while politely register without comment.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy this time and place in life, though grudgingly accept my limitations.
Old age, in itself, is a winter landscape: a time to cut back, to read, to relax by the fire, to be content with a cup of tea and a cat in your lap. It is a comfortable time – and I enjoy it.
But damn, when did I start looking so fucking old?