I’m getting on in years. No point in denying it. But aging hasn’t undermined my most important work, writing. As noted here earlier, while getting old has slowed down my body, including my brain, my creativity grows stronger every year.

But the body that has to be used to get the writing done isn’t functioning as well as it once did. I sleep more than when I was younger. I move more slowly. I’m not as sure on my feet. And I’m more careful than ever to avoid falling, a disaster waiting to happen.

But for all that, I remain a pinnacle of health. My primary care physician admires my vigor. And I claim credit for it. I watch my diet and assure I eat only healthy and nutritious foods. My body weight remains ideal. I lift weights for a couple of hours every other day. I nap every day and allow as much time as I want for sleep at night.

And I don’t look my age. People assume I’m much younger than I am. As a friend observed recently, I don’t look a minute over sixty.

I can’t say that I welcome age—I’d much prefer to have the body that was mine when I was twenty. But it’s not the curse so many people make it out to be. I’m willing to accept all the bodily failings that age brings in return for the expanded ability to write. Writing is what I was put on earth to do, and as my ability to think and create grows, my writing gets better.

I have much to be thankful for.

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