Getting old is like a gorgeous faceted diamond with inclusions and blemishes. Every morning is like a coin flip—I can win the bright, sparkling side or the side with a bit of damage. Either way, I can open my eyes, put my feet on the ground, look in the mirror and say, “Today is going to be a great day because I said it would.”

I thought I’d figured out getting older by watching my grandparents. They rocked a lot and enjoyed kids and grandkids as they came and went. One grandma gave us homemade cookies, and the other had store-bought fare in a free-for-all cookie jar—one cookie was no better than the other. They didn’t cook big dinners; instead, they were catered to and a little spoiled. Getting older for them seemed to be about resting, thinking, enjoying, and being.

What a difference two generations make.

I’m glad I’m still alive, but the word frustration seems to sum up a big part of my aging experience. I find my thoughts are scattered, focusing is difficult, I can’t find the right words, and my biggest concern is being able to sleep through the night.

I don’t see myself as old until someone says, “Do you accept Venmo?” “Just get an Uber.” “Hulu is my favorite.” “All you need is an HDMI cable.” “To make a deposit, just snap a picture.” “Put it on your playlist” “Get the App; I never shop for groceries.” “Be sure you get a smart TV.”

Then there is the car. It does everything but holds me when I’m scared, but if a sensor gets messed up, I have no radio, power steering, or windshield wipers.

There is the issue of service. This week, when the service tech said, “We have no salesperson to help you with the navigation system today. You need to call back and make an appointment.” I stood as tall as I could, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Ma’am, I’m not leaving this room until it’s fixed.” They found someone since it was Saturday, and they didn’t want me sleeping in their waiting room.

Yes, that is another difference. I remember my grandparents having a lot of tolerance; They were always cool, calm, and quiet, and they smiled and nodded a lot. In contrast, my fuse can be so short it scorches my eyelashes.

I concede—getting old for me is unlike my grandparents. Maybe it’s better? I’m not in a rocking chair yet, my days are not hollow if my kids or grandkids don’t call or stop by, and I never run out of new things to learn because change and progress inundate my world.

I’m thinking, though; maybe I need to rock a while.

Until the next time: Live while you live.

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