Camp Clothes for 95 Degrees F, and 90% Humidity

          Please don't tell me that the new 70 is 50.  I can't take that kind of pressure.  Just let me be my age with all of the attendant implications.  I don't have the energy (or the funds) to appear 20 years younger.
          Seventy means you have wrinkles and seventy means you go to bed earlier than you once did--even if you worked in a nap that day.  Seventy means you don't have the same figure of a twenty-something or the stamina of a teen.  Seventy means your hair is thinner, grayer and duller.  I'm asking the world around me to lower their expectations!
          A friend inquired whether my wardrobe at camp in Philly included shorts.  "No!" I replied.  "My legs have been banned in 49 of the 50 states.  The exception is the state of Florida where apparently little old ladies are encouraged to bare their arms and legs.  But I am not in Florida.  People should be thanking me for sparing them such a sight!"
          I recently told Ron that we have reached an age where no one who reads our obituaries would say, "Oh, what a shame--premature death."  I'd like to wear my maturity as naturally and inconspicuously as possible, thank you very much!  This is how I embrace my age.