When I lived in Boston, one of the venerable old blue bloods and an aunt of one of my friends authored a book called To Be Young was Very Heaven, an idea I found abhorrent. Being young was painful. Being old is great. I simply love being old.
Of course I am fortunate. I have few aches and pains and when they come I go swimming, and they go away. I have a few internal problems but nothing that Pepto Bismal or Tylanol won't cure (read mask) and I have a wonderful husband (number 3) and wonderful children and step children. The latter are as attentive and interested in us as the fomer. We have tons of grandchildren, as I stated in my blog introduction, and they are all being raised right. We have outlived our savings but we limp along on social security and tighten our belts when we need to and really have few economic problems. True, we don't spend our Winters in Rio but they don't like us much there anyhow. Besides, Winters in Southern California are very agreeable. We haul out the blankets.
We have many projects to keep us interested; we live in a lively place; the train to San Diego costs $5 for Seniors, we have a bus at the corner which (eventually) gets us to the train, and life is good. If we want to work we can, as we demonstrated for a time last year and this. Gray hair is suddenly an employment plus.
We both have churches which sustain and even please us: his and mine which we frequent, and I hang out mornings at a 2-step group with sound people I love. It jump-starts my day to do that. We have a coffee date with neighbors in the mid-morn, and we usually go out to lunch on a newspaper which pays us to do reviews by reimbursing the food. What could be better.
John has an office and I have an office and just between you and me I think we spur each other on.
I really am tickled with the way life is going. Seventy-five is a good age.
Monday, July 21, 2008
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