You look out the window and see how nice your neighborhood appears. Well-kept lawns. Level sidewalks. Nicely painted houses. Idyllic little neighborhood. Not a bad view in any direction. Then you go outside and it hits you – YOU’RE “that house.” It’s not BAD. Or UGLY. It’s just … aging. Flower bed needs weeding. Driveway cracked. Some paint peeling and chipping. That’s how I’m feeling at 61. Yes I’ve had some medical issues but I’m not talking about that. It’s more how we see ourselves versus how others see us. I used to hang out at a singles bar north of C-bus. Quite an age-range. You had the mid-20-somethings who realized they could no longer hang on campus. 30-somethings who got married too young and were starting over. 40-somethings of either gender exploring mid-life crises. Not many 50-somethings. A few. Friends of the youngers or long time regulars. 60’s? I don’t think so. But there was this one gentleman who I’d guess (through beer goggles and ageism) to be in his 70’s. He looked like my grandfather did before he died. A nice suit. Always polite. But always alone with these empty, baleful, hopeful, searching eyes. I do NOT wanna be that guy. Nor do I wanna look like the 50-something dressed in fashions popular when they were 25. Nor the 30-somethings dressing like high schoolers. I wanna look like a 60-something who’s in shape, intelligent and still has something vital to offer, conversationally and socially. So I might be the OLDEST house in the neighborhood but that just means I’ve been lived in and seen more.