I went to a picnic last week. It’s pretty much the same picnic with the same people going on now for about 40 years. We look at each other incredulously and say:

Man, we’re getting old.

Well, yes, we were “getting old.” But the “getting” part is over. There’s no more “getting” there. We’ve arrived. We’re old.

And, as it turns out, there ain’t a whole lot of people older than us anymore. We’ve met the geezers and they are us!

Once there was a whole lot of old people—hordes of ’em—standing as buffers between us and the grave. In part, that’s because 50-year-olds looked old. Back then I would see a 50-year-old person spike a volleyball and shudder.

YIKES. That old man is going to keel over for sure!

It’s that 20-year differential rule. At 15, 35 looks old. At 35, 55 looks old. At 55, 75 looks old. At 75, 95 looks old. At 95, God looks old.

I’m old. I can’t change that. I accept it. Along with all its benefits.

Memories. Realism. Humility.

Fifty years ago I knew a lot but understood little. I was smart. But knowledge and understanding are two different things. Understanding comes with experience and age.

(Usually.)

I like being old.

I like sharing mutual memories with old friends.

I like repeating a story that no one recalls hearing before.

I like learning new things.

I like my grandchildren telling me things I never knew.

I like learning about body organs I know next to nothing about.

I like talking with old friends about our children who are now “older than us.”

I like traveling alongside old friends going through hard times.

One old friend at the picnic said he couldn’t drive at night anymore and asked for a lift home. He quickly got an offer from a friend.

I’ll take you as long as you show me the way, old buddy. My memory is shot.

And off they went.

I don’t like everything about being old.

I don’t like forgetting names or losing a step.

I don’t like bladder panic.

I don’t like missing those who were once part of this picnic—irreplaceable figures in a beautiful tapestry.

I don’t like feeling that this could be the last picnic for one or more of us.

Life is short.

You know that when you’re young.

You understand it when you’re old.