As I painted the bookcase I argued in my head against an article in Real Simple about superaging. To be a superager is turning 80 into the new 60, or at least 70. I've read several of these breezy articles about how to live as long as the many centenarians found in Okinawa. Lively people in Okinawa still garden and run businesses and eat fish and floss and can read any novel by Haruki Murakami backwards and upside down with full comprehension. Mostly, they walk a lot. This is the big secret of superaging is walking.
I turn 78 in a couple of weeks and I don't want to walk. My hip pings, and I think maybe I should have hip replacement. My knee pings and I think knee replacement. I don't want replacements of any kind. If I just live my life without the three-mile walk, I get along without too many pings. I can do what needs doing, like paint this large bookcase, carry out the trash and drive my car. I do have a hard time pulling the fitted sheet over the last corner, but walking wouldn't improve that any.
Let me age in my own way. Let me read good books, paint a few pictures, look out the window, sit on my terrace, hang out with Tom. When the swimming pool opens again, I will swim. I hope to live into my 80's like most of my ancestors. Making it to one hundred has never been an ambition. Look around. Superagers are outliers.
If we are graded in this life, I think I'd get a B+. And I wouldn't dream of shlepping up to my teacher and whining about the grade. I'd just say thank you.
My grandmother died four days ago. She would have turned 103 in November. She did a NYTimes crossword puzzle the night before. She taught piano lessons up until the week before. She worked in the garden for that long as well. She didn't go for walks anymore. So there's that.
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