I wrote this when I was a mere fifty-five. Now I'm sixty-six and it's gotten worse.

My aging is a perplexing, sometimes diabolical, and an ironic experience. With each passing year I have a greater sense of my mortality.

I’m perplexed because I do not understand the behavior of many younger people. Somehow, I believe our society with its turmoil, excesses and ever-present media has denuded many young people, especially young men, of their self-esteem, sense of responsibility and interest in other people. I’m confounded by the fact that younger people look so young and beautiful. With each passing year their stamina and flat bellies seems stronger and flatter. Very perplexing.

My aging is diabolical because NOW I have to pay the price. Now that I’m slower and fatter and weary, my body is paying for all my excesses of an athletic youth. My ankles and knees were ruined playing football. My left hip and back were injured tackling one Kenneth Allen. Three front teeth were broken off at the gum when my old-fashioned facemask snapped into pieces tackling Billy Velix. My left shoulder was dislocated when I crashed into the goal post. My right shoulder has a torn rotator cuff from throwing baseballs. Somewhere along the line the right shoulder was also dislocated twice. Now all these body parts are arthritic and it’s painful to walk through airports.

When I fly I don’t carry anything. I’m a big tipper and I make skycaps happy. I’m not happy, however, when I see young people hustling down a concourse with their garment bags, carry-ons engineered to barely fit in overhead compartments and their leather laptop bags.

The great irony of aging is that, even in the dark presence of my mortality, I never yearn to trade places – not even a sliver of envy – nary a teensy wish for youth. Call it the arrogance of age, but the virtue of experience transcends the beauty of youth.