More and more often lately, I find that I’m the oldest person around. People I’m dealing with are young enough to be my grandchildren or even great grandchildren. And more often than I’d like, people patronize me with barely concealed condescension—as if being old implies incompetence.
And occasionally I find younger folks lack the life experience necessary to make wise decisions. They fail to comprehend the complexity of situations or overlook factors they should consider.
All that said, most of the time, others respect me and are often impressed by my achievements. And I revere them. In fact, the older I get, the less patient I am with shallow people. I want to spend my valuable remaining time with people I can learn from.
And, as much as I hate to admit it, I am not completely devoid of feeblemindedness. My ability to deal with numbers, never very good, is weaker than ever. My hearing, damaged during combat, is getting worse. And my memory is waning.
But for all that, I am better than ever at what I care most about: thinking. Even though my brain is slowing down, my ability to cogitate continues to grow. That means that I am better able than ever to write.
I discovered at age six that I was born to write. So, despite aging—or maybe because of it—my ability to write goes on improving.
I have no complaints.