If someone gave me an operating manual for aging, I doubt that I would open it. That would be like finding out what date and time slot death has assigned me.
No, thank you.
I'm happy to grumble and gripe, cry and cringe, and mumble and moan through the aging process. The physical aspect, that is.
Seriously, I don't think I am at all that old until I happen to glance into a mirror. Fortunately, we still haven't put up another mirror in the bathroom since the old one broke last New Year's Eve. So, what I don't see, well is what I don't see. Though a few weeks ago, someone asked me ever so sweetly and with much concern, "Are you sick?"
Heck, no. Knock on wood.