When I’m asked if there’s anything good about getting older, the first thing that comes to mind is,� “It’s better than the alternative.”

Somebody once asked me how old I’d think I was if I didn’t know my actual age.� At the time I was in my mid-50s, and I believe I said I’d think I was about 35.� It is now 10 years later and, if I were asked the same question, I’d come up with pretty much the same answer.� Most days, at any rate.

I guess because I’ve been blessed with reasonably good health and am still able to play tennis, I don’t really feel my age, unless, of course, there’s a mirror in the neighborhood or it’s the day of the month that my Social Security check arrives.

I’ve even managed to hang onto all my own teeth, which is more than I can say about my hair.� But because that started leaving home before I’d even turned 30, I don’t attribute baldness to growing old.� I attribute it to God’s being a practical joker.

When I’m asked if there’s anything good about getting older, the first thing that comes to mind is the line I first saw attributed to Maurice Chevalier.� When asked that question, he supposedly said, “It’s better than the alternative.”

For my part, I enjoy the fact that being a curmudgeon at 65 seems far more age-appropriate than being one at 25.� When young people are cranky, it’s just tiresome.� At my age, being cantankerous is cute.

An added bonus is that I can enjoy women’s company without giving a hoot what they look like.� Or worrying what I look like.

On the minus side of the ledger, one of the worst things about getting old is that when you get an ache or suffer even a minor injury, you’re not sure you’ll ever get over it.� For instance, I hurt the heel of my left foot three weeks ago and I’m still hobbling around on it.� At this point, although nothing’s broken, I have no assurance it will ever be better, no way of knowing whether my temporary exile from the tennis courts will be permanent.

The other depressing thing is that it’s inevitable that I will be spending more and more time with doctors and nurses, more time being probed and poked, more time in examination rooms sitting around in my shorts, awaiting the latest indignities modern medicine can foist on me.� It’s only a matter of time until I will be spending far more time checking my blood pressure than checking box scores.

Even though my stamina isn’t what it used to be, even though arthritis has established a beachhead in my hands and my eyesight certainly isn’t what it was, the one bright spot in all this is that I have somehow become stronger than ever.� Frankly, I’m at a loss for an explanation.� All I know is that it wasn’t so long ago that it required both my arms to carry $20 worth of groceries into the house.� I’m now proud to say I can carry $40 worth with one arm tied behind my back.