An Old Fogey
I'm not sure at what age I became aware of my advancing years. Perhaps it was the first time a policeman called me "Sir."
Up till then I had been "young whatshisname" or "boy." There is a serpentine stealth in the way age creeps up on you and how you become aware of the little nuances in the way people talk or interact. Examples include that slight assistance getting in or out of a car; the invisible protective hand above your head, the appreciated push in the back to assist in lift off. That is direct caring and is commendable. The more sly are comments like; "watch out for your health,"(Good Lord, are you still breathing?), or "shall I repeat that?" ( Have you a clue what I'm talking about?)
Mentally I still have my marbles, or at least I think I have. The physical decline symptoms on the other hand sometimes involve aspects of black humour. Hair growth accelerates in the most unusual and unexpected locations like nostrils, eyebrows, and back. My white beard grows at three times the rate of my equally white hair. I enter a barbers like the patriarch Moses parting the Dead Sea. I think it's termed "presence."
You can of course play it to an advantage. Dawdle and mumble incoherently in uncomfortable situations. You get away with murder in your dotage. Throw in a bit of hand tremble and dribbling and your in line for an Oscar.
Nubile young ladies find you cute, or if the truth be told, less of a threat. In fact one develops a censorious appreciation of women with a thirty year age difference. But it's not your fault that you can't find any your own age.
Shall I grow old gracefully? Not a chance.