The second eighty are a succession of birthday parties.
Once you reach eighty, everyone wants to carry your baggage
and help you up the steps. If you forget your name or anybody
else's name, or an appointment, or your own telephone number,
or promise to be three places at the same time, or can't remember
how many grandchildren you have, you need only explain that
you are eighty.
Being eighty is a lot better than seventy. At seventy, people are
mad at you for everything. At eighty, you have a perfect excuse
no matter what you do. If you act foolishly, it's your second
childhood. Everybody is looking for symptoms of softening of
Being seventy is no fun at all. At that age, they expect you to
retire to a house in Florida and complain about your arthritis
(they used to call it lumbago), and you ask everybody to stop
mumbling because you can't understand them. (Actually your
hearing is about fifty percent gone.)
If you survive until you are eighty, everybody is surprised that
you are still alive. They treat you with respect just for having
lived so long. Actually, they seem surprised that you can walk
and talk sensibly.
So please, folks, try to make it to eighty. It's the best time of
life. People forgive you for anything. If you ask me, life begins
Attributed to Dr. C. Everett Koop