Well Okay Then

I turned 67 last week. Birthdays always get you thinking. It's been exactly three years now (Labor Day 2013) since I walked up onto that Florida shore after swimming the 111 miles over that epic ocean from Cuba. So that was age age 64.  Sure, I am aging. I see the signs, especially the skin. But what to do? Every moment I stop to worry about the lines on the face, the drooping of the breasts, is a moment I have not lived fully. I am as vital, beaming with as much energy, even stronger physically, than I was 20, 30, 40 years ago. This is the prime, my friends, and I am grasping with gusto onto every ounce of zest and passion within me, every day, every way. We, the population at large, are redefining all the ages. Eighteen is no longer too young to start a business. 67 is no longer old age. (And one quick aside. Of all the illogical venom Trump throws at Hillary, the recent claim that she is lacking in stamina is clearly, patently absurd. It's 14 months now that Hillary has been sleeping an average of three hours a night. She travels some days to three different cities, gives speeches, listens to constituents, meets policy makers on a myriad of complicated subjects. At 68, the future President Hillary Rodham Clinton is only one year older than the woman who did what no younger athlete could, swim all the way from Cuba to Florida.)

A photo posted by Diana Nyad (@diananyad) on Aug 31, 2016 at 10:17am PDT