Becoming a Centenarian

Like The New Yorker, I was born in 1925. Somewhat to my surprise, I decided to keep a journal of my hundredth year. The author, who was born on December 17, 1925, notes that the magazine's first issue came out ten months before he did. Old age is no joke, but it can feel like one. You look everywhere for your glasses, until your wife points out that you're wearing them. I turn a hundred this year. People act as though this is an achievement, and I suppose it is, sort of. Nobody in my family has lived this long, and I've been lucky. I'm still in pretty good health, no wasting diseases or Alzheimer's, and friends and strangers comment on how young I look, which cues me to cite the three ages of man: Youth, Maturity, and You Look Great. On the other hand, I've lost so many useful abilities that my wife, Dodie, and I have taken to calling me Feebleman. Look, up in the sky! No, it's Dodie doesn't want me to know how old she is, but she's nearly three decades younger than I am, and I become ...