Let's grow old together. A little feebler, perhaps, a little wiser. It could be we'll be worse for the wear, or maybe we'll wear well. Maybe one each. You over there on your side, your half of the blanket. Me over here, holding down this part of the fort.
I don't mind the wrinkles. I don't even see them, really, unless I'm looking. And that goes for me, too. I still see the same 16-year-old kid in the mirror, except when I'm looking really closely, then, whoa. That's what everyone else sees all the time, since they're not the 16-year-old kid.
Growing old is a mental state, if you can manage it. So far, so good. I still haven't managed it entirely, but in theory, the theory of it, I'm very good. I would love to grow old gracefully, but I keep putting it off. My worries are constant, so I haven't got the hang of it yet just letting things drift. Every phone call could be disaster. I've trained myself to see catastrophe with every strange noise or smell. The worst thing in the world is right around the corner.
My hands still don't look old, and I'm trying to look at them objectively. I've seen a lot worse, age spots, wrinkles like there's no tomorrow, veins as big as life, bad stuff. But as long as they work, they're better than nothing.
It's already past my bedtime.
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