Seventy-five feels like one of those demarcation ages — like 21, 30, and 65 — though I’m fuzzy on what it demarks. Really old, as opposed to just old? Elderly with a capital E? The onset of dotage? Ice floe time? But, but … we don’t feel 75!
Now that intelligent and considerate people are masking again, I had a choice to make yesterday: whether to go to the monthly book club meeting in person or attend by Zoom. I chose wisely.