Growing Old Disgracefully
I’ve often told the story about the dark and stormy day back in the 90s when I received an email from a friend that prompted me to see the beauty in the rain, rather than being miserable because of it. ‘Twas an email that truly changed my life. I’d like to try to pay this forward a little by sharing my thoughts about aging. I’ll try to be brief.
I’m 62 years old (September, 1951), and I’m happy as a clam. My body has been beaten up a bit over the years, but I’m (surprisingly) in pretty good shape. I never ever ever wish I was younger. Why not? Because those sort of wishes don’t come true.
From the day we are born, we are one step closer to death every single day, and the only thing we can do to stop this is die.
I’m writing this in the hope that anyone who reads it who bemoans their advancing years might reconsider their stance on the subject.
You might lie about your age, and I guess that’s okay as long as you embrace every day you’re here on God’s Green Earth.
Feeling sad about your advancing age is nothing more than a waste of precious time. It’s as simple as that.
Those of you who are already old already know that the person you are inside is pretty much the same as the person you were when you were 20. Your joints might ache a bit, and all sorts of ailments might plague you, but inside you’re that same rascal that you were 20, 30, 40, or even more years ago. What’s not to enjoy?
Please think about joining me when you get older, or right now if you’re already there, in never ever ever feeling sad about getting older.
You’ve three choices. You can either:
1. Get old and be miserable about it
2. Get old and be happy about it.
Which do you choose?