Well, today my life partner turned 74.
It was,
for the first time in our lives, an old-people’s birthday. We’ve both had a
terrible year health-wise, and John’s second round of hip inflammation within
months has turned him from a bicycling jock into a limping senior. Driving for
too long at a time is uncomfortable; walking too far is a problem.
So today,
instead of driving out of town for a birthday lunch, as we have for the last
few years, we took a bus that would land us within close walking distance of a
Granville Street restaurant. On the bus, the alacrity with which young people
leapt up to give John their seats was a measure of how he must appear to those
for whom the Beatles’ lyrics are still an unthinkable proposition.
Luckily,
as even the youthful Beatles acknowledged in their 1967 song, couples age
together (“you’ll be older too”), so to me, John is not old. He’s still the
intense photographer I met at age 21; still the athlete who booted it around
the track before “jogging” became a fad; still the contrarian ready to
challenge the obvious; the joker ready to tell a tall tale; the reader who will
succumb to any book with Jane Austen in the title.
And, a
decade beyond the Beatles’ wildest imaginings, the answer to their question is,
yes.
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