Quotes About Aging

I am living in the Google years, no question of that. And there are advantages to it. When you forget something, you can whip out your iPhone and go to Google. The Senior Moment has become the Google moment, and it has a much nicer, hipper, younger, more contemporary sound, doesn't it? By handling the obligations of the search mechanism, you almost prove you can keep up.... You can't retrieve you life (unless you're on Wikipedia, in which case you can retrieve an inaccurate version of it).

I look as young as a person can look given how old I am.

Anything you think is wrong with your body at the age of thirty-five you will be nostalgic for at the age of forty-five.

checked out the mirror to see if I looked older, or sadder, or wiser. I didn't; I just looked tired.

On some level, my life has been wasted on me. After all, if I can't remember it, who can? The past is slipping away and the present is a constant affront. I can't possibly keep up.

I have been forgetting things for years—at least since I was in my thirties. I know this because I wrote something about it at the time. I have proof. Of course, I can't remember exactly where I wrote about it, or when, but I could probably hunt it up if I had to.

At the age of fifty-five you will get a saggy roll just above your waist even if you are painfully thin. This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate half the clothes in your closet, especially the white shirts.

it's sad to be over sixty. The long shadows are everywhere—friends dying and battling illness. A miasma of melancholy hangs there, forcing you to deal with the fact that your life, however happy and successful, has been full of disappointments and mistakes, little ones and big ones. There are dreams that are never quite going to come true, ambitions that will never quite be realized. There are, in short, regrets

I have not yet reached the nadir of old age, the Land of Anecdote, but I'm approaching it.

The Senior Moment has become the Google moment, and it has a much nicer, hipper, younger, more contemporary sound, doesn't it?

According to my dermatologist, the neck starts to go at forty-three, and that's that...The neck is a dead give-away. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn't have to if it had a neck.

There's a reason why forty, fifty, and sixty don't look the way they used to, and it's not because of feminism, or better living through exercise. It's because of hair dye.

I'm old. I am sixty-nine years old. I'm not really old, of course. Really old is eighty. But if you are young, you would definitely think that I'm old.

Anything you think is wrong with your body at the age of thirty-five you will be nostalgic for at the age of forty-five. At the age of fifty-five you will get a saggy roll just above your waist even if you are painfully thin. This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate half the clothes in your closet, especially the white shirts.

You can put makeup on your face and concealer under your eyes and dye on your hair, you can shoot collagen and Botox and Restylane into your wrinkles and creases, but short of surgery, there's not a damn thing you can do about your neck. The neck is a dead giveaway. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn't have to if it had a neck.

Poate c? fericirea pân? la adânci b?trâneÅ£i era o prostie, dar acum ÅŸtia c? voia s? fac? mai multe fotografii care s? surprind? momente cu adev?rat fericite. Pentru c? acestea vor dura p?n? la adânci b?trâneÅ£i.

Obviously at wit's end, he scrubbed his hands over his face. "Doesn't your breed stop having birthdays at forty?" "We may stop counting, Dr. Carnegie, but that doesn't mean we don't expect an appropriate gift on the occasion.

Tyler tested it himself and found he agreed with her. We'll let it age a bit. A lot of things become what they're meant to if you leave them alone awhile. Is that philosophy I hear? You want an opinion, or just somebody to agree with you? I guess wanting both was expecting too much. There you go.

At forty-six, Rosalind Harper was a rose in full bloom. Not the hothouse sort, Stella mused, but one that weathered the elements, season after season, and came back, year after year, stronger and more beautiful. She

Health and beauty. What next? Look, kid, I make wine, not skin cream.

As rooms went it was a sad statement, with its ancient coppertone appliances, white-with-gold-speckled countertops and fake-brick linoleum floor.

them. Her hair was short and fluffed and silver

When you get older, you come to trust in time. Not that I'm meaning you sit idle and let it pass.

Inside, the floor was made of linoleum tiles, yellowed with age and dusted with brown flecks that looked like fly spots. The booths were rugged red vinyl, an improvement over the ripped and tattered brown that Tucker had replaced just six months before. The red was already fading to orange.