I'm shaving. Tertius peers at me from the bathroom door.
"Dad, you look pretty good for 54," he says. We're getting ready to head off for his birthday party, so perhaps he's being particularly benign. I thank him.
"Yes," he continues, "most people in their fifties use walkers or wheelchairs."
Er, yeah. (Although by the end of the day, I'm a bit miffed that I didn't get any compliments on my purple sneakers.)
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