My twin and I have passed the tender age of 61. That’s 427 in dog years. It is utterly unfathomable to me that in theory, in one more year, I could dip into the Social Security fund you have contributed to for so long. (My thanks to FICA contributors who make more money than me and the Ellens and Reids of the world who will continue to support my age group into the foreseeable future and beyond.)
Deep down, I don’t feel 61 although I’m not sure who the guy is in the mirror every morning. My recollection of me and reality are not in snyc. But I can tell I’ve lost a step in the gym, have developed an intolerance for uncalibrated bathroom scales, have come to rely on a grocery list as a must-have memory aid and know the ability to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news is a pipe dream. The jury is out on whether I’m older but better.
Discussion of their old man’s age by Ellen, Reid has never been forbidden. I could care less if they talk about it as long as they don’t rub it in. There really have been no overt references to this birthday, hence no specific letter dealing with it; that would just rub salt into the gaping wound.
It’s not an official week on this site without a photo of Ellen’s loveable dog, Henry.