The American Spectator

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The Nation's Pulse

Some of the aging process comes on slowly. I think of two particular incidents. In the first, I applied for a New Jersey driver's license about eight years ago.

"Hair?" the examiner asked me.

"Brown," I said.

The examiner looked up.

"You're kidding," she said.

"Gray," went down on the license. I didn't realize. I had been used to gray tips, but they always disappeared when I got a haircut. No more.

In a hospital some years later, an admissions nurse asked me my height.

"Five nine and a half," I said.

My wife, at my side, snickered.

"What?" I said.

"Better measure him," my wife said.

Which the nurse duly did. Five-five. Osteoporosis.

I got mine back on that one, however. Obviously, I can't swing standard length and lie golf clubs any more. So I got my first fitted clubs. Really nice.

SOMEBODY ONCE SAID THAT WHEN YOU'RE 70, you feel just like you did when you were 18 -- "except that something is really wrong." Until three months ago, I was still doing my twice-daily stretch routine, proud that I could reach beyond my toes, tie my legs into yogic pretzels, lace my hands behind my back, and so forth.

I have always been a prideful old cuss about such things. At my sons' taekwondo classes, I would outstretch my boys, let alone the adults. Overweight? Not me, not ever. Strong? I could pick up anything. Even when I was very sick a couple years back, I moved a double bed upstairs by myself.