I'm jealous of dancing George.

George. He’s the oldest guy in my neighborhood. Age 92. And still going strong. He rakes his yard. Has a well-manicured lawn. His place looks neat, too. And orderly. Furthermore, George is an astute ballroom dancer. Still very nimble on his feet. Dances. Dances. Dances all the time. And is mighty proud of his exploits on the dance floor. Has a personalized license plate on his big boat of a car. ‘DANCR,’ the plate reads. Dropped the ‘e’ I presume. Because someone else already has ‘DANCER.’  Anyway, I was stunned to see. George has his lakeshore home for sale. He’s planning on moving. Into a townhouse. In another Twin Cities suburb. Forty miles away.  For convenience sake. Doesn’t want to do yard work any more.  But George says he’ll keep on dancing. Til the day he dies. That may be a long time in coming. Because he looks fit. Physically. Mentally, too.  George has lived in the same house. Since 1953. One of the first settlers in the neighborhood.  Used to work for 3M. His wife died 11 years ago. One thing about George. He adapts. To life circumstances. He’s a happy fella. And I hate to see him leave. For an obvious reason. He’s a good neighbor. And a decent human being. But I have a selfish motive, too. I don’t want to be tagged the oldest guy in the neighborhood. I admit, too. To being a  little bit jealous of George. Having never learned to dance. –Jim Broede