I am about to lambast “old-old, ” a term used to describe anyone alive at age 85 or older. That includes me. But what does old-old mean?
Actually, what does just plain “old” mean? Are we as old as we feel? If that’s true, my “oldness” changes like the weather. When I am walking to the subway, bundled up from head to toe and observe others hatless with open jackets, I don’t feel so youthful. But when I climb the stairs in my apartment building without puffing, I feel quite fit and young.
To me, “old” is the (formerly) chic, chocolate-brown suede bomber jacket that has hung unworn in my closet since I retired, and, sometimes, “old” is the woman looking back at me from the mirror.
Would I like to be age 30 again? No way.
But 75 sounds good.

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