Today was a good day to hang out in the Cincinnati Enquirer’s obits.  Turns out, nearly all the local dears departed decades later in life than my age now. 

Also in today’s newspaper was a piece about the Japanese lady who, at 116, is believed to be the oldest woman in the world.  Wow, if I lived to be 116, I would still have 50 more years to live. 

But even if I lived to be 116, I still wouldn’t be middle-aged now, would I?  The middle of 116 years is 58.  I’m 67.

For 67 to the middle of my life, I’d have to live to be 134.  I have too many pizzas and Cheetos under my belt for longevity.

Despite the encouraging news in today’s newspaper, it is undeniably true that I have more life behind me than in front of me. 

Some say, “Age gracefully.”  That sounds like it’s about someone else, about making it comfortable for the people around you.  Aging gracefully (even walking gracefully) doesn’t seem like a viable plan for me.

I say, figure out what you want out of your remaining years, then age pragmatically. 

What do I want for my final chapter? 

I want to LEARN, TEACH, AND PLAY. This is my plan for getting what I want:

ONE
I will stop aging myself with self-deprecating talk. My self will age without my help.  If I am tempted to label myself as old or irrelevant or blind or constipated, I. Will. Stop.  Stop.

TWO
If I forget something, I won’t say I’ve had a “senior moment.” I just forgot something, dammit.  I still have a lot of data stored in this good noggin of mine, and it’s mostly the detritus that leaks out anyway.

Like the name of that actor  who kinda looks like Charles Laughton but with blond hair, the guy who played the gunslinger in that movie-I-can’t recall in I-don’t-know-what-year?  Turns out I don’t have to remember because SIRI did.

THREE
I will not hang with curmudgeons. Curmudgeony is contagious. I am going to hang with the cool kids.

FOUR
I will develop relationships with people of all ages, not just mature ladies like me. I don’t want to be the last one left at the party, the one who turns out the lights. In the presence of young people, I will act the equal I am.  I will not lord my experience over them . . . or apologize for it.

FIVE
I will not play organ recitals about everyday aches and pains. Nobody wants to hear about my sluggish colon, prolapsed uterus, and toenail fungus. Whining about my chassis won’t do anybody a bit of good, not like juicy conversations about Game of Thrones or climate change or polyamory.

SIX
When I need help with technology, I won’t apologize for being old and for not dying before my computer contracted a virus. I will trust my ability to learn.  I’m not stupid; I just haven’t yet been taught.  I will sidle up to the Genius Bar and say, “Could you please teach me how . . .?”

SEVEN
I will not disparage the younger generation or how things are today. No, “the Millennials . . .” or “the younger generation . . .” It just makes me sound like somebody’s Great Aunt Dorcas.  I will instead lift up the ways young people do things better, like fixing heart valves, sharing parenting equally, and putting Scrabble online (with a built-in dictionary, no less–genius!). 

Admit it:  who’s wiser, the Parkland kids or their grandparents?

EIGHT
I will try saying, “You may be right,” and “I may be wrong.” I will let someone else have the last word.  I will keep my opinions to myself unless I know what I’m talking about.

NINE
No matter how long I live, I. Will. Not. Talk. About. Bowel Movements. Not about the consistency, frequency, aroma,  hue, or ease of passage. My children have my permission to whack me upside my head if I do.

TEN
I have limited time left to learn, and I will use that time wisely. I won’t waste it on learning how to fold fitted sheets, making kale palatable, reading Ulysses, or accessing the Cloud (really, what and where is that?).

ELEVEN
I will say it all now. I will express my love and gratitude, leaving nothing unsaid.  I will make amends. I will write letters to leave my children.  I will write letters to legislators.  Maybe I will write a blog.

TWELVE
I am getting my affairs in order, and you know what’s great about that? Unlike housework or gardening or sex, you don’t have to do itover and over again.  Once it’s done, you can cross it off your list and just live.   

I’ve updated my will. There is a list of my online passwords in my safety deposit box.  I have chosen my Power of Attorney, someone who will be brave enough to pull the plug or to drive me to Oregon where I can smoke pot until I die a peaceful, dignified, pharmacologically-accelerated death.  I have signed the papers to donate my body to science, to give the docs one last chance to comment on my subcutaneous fat and unflossed teeth.

THIRTEEN
If a young person offers me a seat on the bus, I’ll take it and say, “Thank you.” His parents taught him manners, and I will reinforce their lessons.  And besides, falling would be a bad thing, right?  A broken hip would put a real kink (pun intended) in my kama sutra practice.

FOURTEEN
I will moisturize aggressively. If all else fails, I will call Jane Fonda’s plastic surgeon.

FIFTEEN
I will not spend one minute wearing an uncomfortable bra.

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