Whenever my friend John and I get together, we spend a good chunk of time discussing the national news, complaining about the state of the culture, and laughing, sometimes incredulously, at political developments. John is 60, and I am soon to be 69, and I suppose we have officially joined the ranks of the Grumpy Old Men brigade. On the other hand, we are rarely grumpy about life itself; we find delight in the day at hand, and laughter punctuates our discussions much more than despair.
In the last several years—it was John who first noticed this addition to our conversation—we also spend a bit of time grousing about growing old: stiffening joints, various bumps and barnacles, as my doctor calls them, wrinkled flesh, sagging muscles, some need for medications and special vitamins, and other infirmities associated with climbing the ladder of years.
