I never tried to find out how old my readers are. What I do know is that, when I was young, I seldom gave a thought to what being old means. The more so because my late grandparents in particular were of the kind who seldom complained about their health problems, and they had plenty. Now that I am seventy-three years old, I suspect that very few young people have any idea about what being old actually means.

Specifically, what ignited my interest in the question at this time was a visit I paid to Belin a few months ago. The three days I spent there were exceptionally hot with temperatures around 35 degrees and more. So for three days on end I went swimming at the Schlachtensee, a lake in the southwestern part of the city well-known to me from my previous visits. Arriving by suburban train, I found the lake absolutely flooded by thousands upon thousands of young people. Coming in all genders and colors, and speaking every language under the sun, they seemed, without exception, healthy and strong. I myself, I discovered, was practically the only person over thirty for miles around.

It was an eerie experience. And it certainly made me think about the things all those people do not yet know but which, willy–nilly, they are going to learn soon enough. For many of them, too soon by far. So to provide some perspective, here goes.

To be old means that “everything” happened long ago. One’s grains of insight. One’s small triumphs. One’s disappointments. One’s disillusionment. Gone they are, buried, growing less precise and more indistinct with every passing day.

On the other hand, to be old means to see one’s life as if it passed in a flash. Wasn’t it only yesterday that I was small, went to school, decided on a profession, met my love, married, and had children? The youngest, Uri, will be turning forty this very week. The oldest, Eldad, is almost forty-eight years old. His hair and beard are almost completely gray. Recently he has started wearing glasses. Strange.

Paradoxically, being old also means that the movement of time into the future seems to have slowed down. Or that at any rate is how it seems to me. Next week, next month, next year—they seem ages away. At times I feel I cannot wait for them; at others, that they will be with me soon enough.

To be old means losing one’s memory. Not in any systematic way, as when a computer file is erased; but in a haphazard one. Opening one’s mouth, one never knows what one will be able to come up with, what not, in relation to what, and when. What is there one moment is gone in the next, and the other way around. Personally I find this humiliating and as hard to bear as any other symptom of age. As far as writing is concerned, thank God for Google which usually enables one to find what one has forgotten fairly quickly.

Thus, with stronger cialis prices blood flow to the penile muscles. It means that the mutation responsible for autism is absent in order viagra click for more info parent?s genes. Now that you have gone through all the viagra online cheap methods, it must be quite evident that there is nothing like the best or perfect method. Psychological symptoms of menopause will include lowest price for viagra a lack of concentration, headache etc. To be old means to feel one’s physical strength waning away. Nothing very surprising about that, except that it is something most of us find it hard to imagine until it happens to us. I used to be a Marathon runner, and not such a bad one either. Now I can barely run a couple of steps without getting out of breath and feeling an old injury to my left leg beginning to hurt. I used to think that, provided I slowed down and did not push myself too hard, I would be able to continue cleaning my own house as I have enjoyed doing for so long. Now I am no longer sure.

To be old often means that, seeing one trying to use one’s strength, people volunteer their help. Strange experience, that; a girl of twenty offering me her seat on the train. But it happens time after time.

To be old means having to wear a hat to avoid the sun shining directly on one’s bald head. It also means going everywhere with an entire pharmacy full of miscellaneous drugs for treating miscellaneous symptoms. I hate that; I suppose it reminds me of my growing frailty as well as my dependence on others. But what choice do I have?

To be old means to suffer gradual loss of one’s senses, including sight, hearing, smell, and taste. I find trying to keep up with the doctors who look after such problems is both humiliating and very time consuming. Not to mention other problems my health service keeps insisting I should check and insure myself against; had I heeded their advice, I would have been left both without a moment to spare and penniless. So I try to ignore them as best I can, hoping that the future price to pay won’t be too high.

To be old is to lose many of one’s relatives, friends and acquaintances. They are gone and will not return. Some I miss, others not.

Finally, growing old means losing one’s enthusiasm for a great many things. For me, the thing that gives me the greatest pleasure is looking at my small garden. And watching little children at play.

And simply being with Dvora, of course.