I don’t feel like I’m eighty-two.  Most of the time, I feel fifty-ish. But of late, I’ve seen some signs that I am not.  For example, our staple house jam is orange marmalade.  Yet when I bought a new jar home the other day, it was apricot jam. 

I seem to be dropping things or knocking over glasses or forgetting what I came into the kitchen for more than I used to. Sometimes I lose track of where I am in my exercise routine, and I’m really not clear about what a meme is.

I can live with all of the above.  But last week when I let a glass bowl slide off the kitchen counter and shatter into a million pieces, requiring me to throw away two big scoops of coffee ice cream, I realized that my best years might be behind me.