I have never been this age before.

I am not sure I like it.

Once I had a friend who, at 85 complained that he just was not the man he once was. He said he used to carry two bags of cement (100 pounds each), one in each arm, and now, he said, he could only carry one, and that with some difficulty.

This week a couple of times I have felt that twinge, or more.

There was a british comedy (those brits have a way with comedy that mixes silliness with biting reality) about two old coots who were living in a retirement center. They got into a lot of mischief, either brought to them or created by them, but at the end of the series the mood became quite dark and hopeless.

I sense that. Last night I was watching tv and reading and Miriam was sitting in her chair sleeping, and I got this feeling of impending doom. One of the things I read was by Thomas Friedman from the New York Times:

For the next few years we’re all going to be working harder for less money and fewer government services — if we’re lucky.

Right now I can still do pretty much what I want, physically. I just do not want as much, maybe. I just finished a project here at our house, and I could start another soon, but I there are other constraints.

And it is winter, my most unfavorite time of year. We took up cross country skiing once to give me something to look forward to in winter. Still have the skis, but the fear of falling reduces the potential joy of that activity.

This morning I got up at 5, emptied the ashes from the wood stove, and built a fire. It did not sound right, so I looked again, and the rope sealer that keeps the fire box tight and controls the burning is falling lose. I don’t know how to repair it yet, but it is to hot to try now. I will have to wait for it to cool.

Sort of like life itself.

The British comedy was called: “Waiting for heaven.”

Hmm.