Looking for reassurance.

There are worse fates than growing old. Take me. I’m 81. And have no serious complaints. Certainly, it’s better than being dead.  I’m a survivor. I’ve outlasted many friends and associates. A glance at the obituary page. Shows many expiring in their 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s. I would have hated dying before my time. Fact of the matter. I’m in no hurry to die. Though I might change my mind. If I were decrepit. Unable to move about or think sensibly. Used to be hard for me to imagine.  Ever becoming an octogenarian. But here I am. Still walking 10 miles a day.  And writing about the good and grand life. Oh, I’ve had occasional pitfalls. But it seems like I’ve been happy forever and ever. But that won’t stop me from seeing a psychotherapist. This week. Just to see if my head is screwed on straight.  Think it is. But I need reassurance. --Jim Broede