December 13, 1932

Friday, December 13, 1932.   That's when I came into the world.   And that makes me 80 years old today -- an octogenarian.  I'm trying to get used to that word, to demystify it, to distill it to its purity of meaning -- quite simply that I have lived 80 years.  It says nothing about my mental acuity or my physical robustness.

But let's be real. "Octogenarian" sounds so old, with stereotypes of fragile little people, diminished in every way.  It's the time when nurses in doctors offices begin in all seriousness to treat you like a child again and adopt a fake tone of cheeriness:  "How are we feeling this morning, Sweetie?"

I've already had the experience of a cashier at the bagel shop, as I was sorting out coins to give her the exact amount, say in her kind, but patronizing tone, "Take you time, hon."

I have plans, not so much to deny the reality of my age but to embrace it as an opportunity.  Responsibilities are lessened, more time is available.   I want to harvest my life experiences, to be reminded, to mull them over, and reflect on what this has all been about.

In time I may share some of that.   Some of it will be private.   Who knows?   I might even extract a book of memoirs from it.   Or I may not.  I have no obligation to do it.

But it is a journey I would like to begin.

Ralph