It was my birthday recently. Last year I moved from being “late 50s” to “nearly 60” and this year I entered my 60th year. At least, that was what I thought, but it seems to be worse than that. According to a newspaper article I just read they can call you elderly when you are 64.
Elderly is, according to the dictionary, a polite word for old.
I’m only just beginning to accept being middle-aged, so can’t help thinking that “elderly” is pushing it a bit. I just looked up “middle age” and found it is defined as the period between the end of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance. Clearly I need to concentrate more. The difference between “age” and “ages” is quite significant. I’ve also just noted there are two ways to spell ageing, (or aging). I didn’t know that, I just thought one was wrong.
Middle age, it appears, lasts from 45 to 65, so I appear to have squandered my middle years without noticing them. An article on the internet suggests that you are only middle-aged when you hit certain milestones rather than an age. They suggest 53 – 55, which still makes me middle-aged. As I hit most of the milestones I’m irretrievably middle-aged, regardless of the number of years I have lived.
I’m not going to admit to anything specific, but examination of previous posts will reveal that I have thinning hair, creaky joints, hirsute orifices, membership of the National Trust, inappropriate sleep habits and a deep distrust of technology, modern music and young people. I do not, however, own travel sweets, a sports car or bed socks.
Though my feet have been feeling cold in bed recently…
Meanwhile, I’ve had a letter from the hospital and learned a new word. The word is cystolitholapaxy. I just looked it up.
Sometimes you are better not knowing…