That’s what I’m aiming for.

Although, it sometimes seems to me that I am already there—and that’s what I’m wondering about today.  How did that happen?  And, more importantly, when?

By some objective measurements, of course, I’m already too old to die young.  Jesus only made it to 33.  Lennon to 40.  I am—what?—relieved? distressed? surprised?—to report that I have passed those milestones.

On the other hand, according to the actuarial tables, I’ve got a bit more time.  And I read somewhere that those of us who could make it through the next twenty years had a good chance of living well over a hundred.  That must have been seven or eight years ago, now, so I’m well on my way.

But I’m sitting here with more dental bills than I like to consider and wondering why it’s so much harder to lose weight than it used to be and, most irksomely, gearing up to do the physical therapy exercises for my frozen shoulder.

The only thing about the frozen shoulder that is remotely comforting is the number of stories that turn up on Google of people much younger than I with the same condition.

It is hard, however, not to feel like I’ve crossed some invisible barrier.

Over the Mason-Dixon line into old age.

As if the mere act of moving to the Sunshine State has flipped a switch and forced me to join the geriatric set.

I went from almost always being the youngest person in the room to often being one of the oldest—without ever having recognized a time period when everybody in the room was a contemporary of mine.

I suspect some of that is due to a long involvement in theatre.  Even in high school, the drama club crossed age lines.  Your fellow actors were just as likely to be seniors as freshmen.  I don’t attend high school reunions for that reason.  Most of my friends weren’t part of my class.

When I got to New York, it was even more obvious.  Nobody was using shoe polish in his hair to play the grandfather.  The producer had hired an actual grandfather—or, at least, someone who could have been one.

So, I don’t think about age all that often.

Except, now I do.

The guy at the auto parts store yesterday insisted on carrying the battery out to the car, “because I wouldn’t want my mother to have to carry this.”

And people “ma’am” me.  Of course, I’m in the south, so that’s less horrifying than it might otherwise be.

The shoulder is the thing that’s most troublesome.

I was doing yard work.  I was painting the house, moving furniture, scrubbing floors and shelving books.

And then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t.

When did that happen?