Intrepid Optimist is the place where I can share my stories; fact, fiction and thoughts from the past and present. It’s Written by myself for people who believe adventure knows no age
I am not sure what old age is anymore. I thought I was old at forty, then again at fifty and et al until I recently reached this, my eighty-third year. I am not consoled by the flatterers who tell me that eighty is the new seventy. What if I am condemned to live to be one-hundred? will those same charmers, should they also still be around, be soothing me with, one-hundred is the new ninety? There has to be a limit – maybe not? With the incredible advancements in the fields of science and medicine, replaceable organs and artificial limbs, who knows just how much lives will be prolonged.
If we are all going to live longer, I suppose a good remedy for old age is for one to go on pursuing ends that give one’s existence some satisfaction and meaning. After all, one’s journey from birth to death should not be made with the sole aim of arriving there as healthy and youthful looking as one possibly can. Before they nail down my coffin and light the gas, I personally would like to be able to raise that last glass of gin to my lips and toast my spent cadaver.
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