I looked at Morrie and I suddenly knew why he so enjoyed my leaning over and adjusting his microphone,
or fussing with the pillows, or wiping his eyes. Human touch.
At seventy-eight, he was giving as an adult and taking as a child.
Later that day, we talked about aging. Or maybe I should say the fear of aging—
another of the issues on my what’s-bugging-my-generation list.
On my ride from the Boston airport, I had counted the billboards that featured young and beautiful people.
There was a handsome young man in a cowboy hat, smoking a cigarette, two beautiful young women smiling over a shampoo bottle,
a sultry-looking teenager with her jeans unsnapped, and a sexy woman in a black velvet dress,
next to a man in a tuxedo, the two of them snuggling a glass of scotch.
Not once did I see anyone who would pass for over thirty-five.
I told Morrie I was already feeling over the hill, much as I tried desperately to stay on top of it.
I worked out constantly. Watched what I ate. Checked my hairline in the mirror.
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