Age

One thing I hate about aging is the deterioration in my typing. The wrong words keep appearing. When I talk I sometimes say the wrong word and often can’t remember the right word. I was at a meeting of people I have known for years recently. They are more or less my age. The entire conversation was full of “what did you say?” — due to decline in hearing — and “I can’t remember the name.” I used to think that Shakespeare was too negative in his — or rather Jacques’ — seven ages of man:

The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Now I am not so sure Jacques was wrong. Of course, he was a jerk and cynic. Here in St. Paul it’s a glum, gray day and I am recovering from oral surgery. I might be more cheerful on another day.