Well, I’ve made it to 65!
I had been practising saying it in my mind—‘I’m 65 years old’—and so prematurely said I was two weeks ago. Dementia?!
The dreaded dementia: I am tired of myself worrying about dementia. It has to stop. What will be will be. Oh, I’m into all the preventative stuff because I enjoy keeping my brain and body active but I don’t want to mar my life now by worrying about what might befall me. Besides, it is just as well that we wear out: I imagine it makes us far more accepting of death.
On the bright side, being 65 is a licence to being a tad reckless. ‘If I don’t do it now, I might never do it’ is a neat justification that I am already employing.