Now for another column in the never-ending series of “you know you are getting old when…” You know you are getting old when you run into a friend at the pharmacy and you end up having a conversation about which fiber cereals are the tastiest and most effective; goodbye Fruity Pebbles, hello Fiber One! You know you are getting old when you do not attempt to cross a New York City street when there are only 10 seconds left on the traffic light for fear that you won’t make it in time and will get hit by a cab. You know you are getting old when you are taking a painting class and you cannot hear the instructor who is standing less than two feet away from you. You know you are getting old when every other conversation with your spouse starts with “Where did I leave my… (fill in the blank—keys, phone, drink, head etc.). You know you are getting old when you go downstairs to the laundry room and you have no idea why you are there. Truthfully, laundry room can be replaced with any room in the house as you stand there, looking around trying to figure out what brought you there. You know you are getting old when you leave yourself a note to replace the toilet paper and you forget. Enough said about that.

You know you are getting old when you start listening to the weatherman about the dangers of not drinking enough during a heat wave. You know you are getting old when you wake up in the morning and can no longer turn your head to the right, and spend the day with a frozen water bottle on your neck (part of a matching set with the frozen water bottle you have to use on your foot because of foot pain associated with old age; yup, falling apart one body part at a time). But then as the water bottle melts (the one being used on your neck, not the one being used on your foot) you can drink it so you won’t dehydrate. Multitasking at its finest.

You know you are getting old when someone asks you about social media and you think they are just talking about Facebook. Facebook is to us what rotary phones are to our kids. (Kids, rotary phones are the ones with no buttons and you had to put your finger in the hole where the oh forget it, just Google it.) Apparently, I should be tweeting and Instagramming and I have no idea how to do either of those things. I am happy that I figured out how to use bunk notes on the camp website (though you know you are getting old when you keep forgetting to send your kids bunk notes). It also doesn’t help that I am still using grandma flippy (my beloved phone). It has been touch and go with her the past few weeks because her color is fading. There was actually a whole hour when her screen was dark purple and I called husband #1 with the news that I was on my way to buy a new phone. But then I gave grandma some orange juice and she started to lighten up a bit. Unfortunately, I can no longer read texts in the light, I must now stand under a tree or go inside. If someone calls me, I can no longer read who it is that is trying to reach me. This, of course, has nothing to do with my getting older but everything to do with not spending money on a new phone.

In any event, every Friday night husband #1 likes to read the entertainment section of the paper that is not the New York Times, because we no longer get that paper. In this section it has the birthdays of celebrities. For years he would say the name of the famous person and I would guess their age. I was usually pretty good at this game. But the past few months, he would say some of the names and neither of us would have the slightest clue who this person was. Yes, we are now getting so old that we have to Google celebrities to find out who they are. I guess I should be grateful that we know what Google is.

But with all the birthdays that pass and with all the signs that we are getting old we should also be grateful that we can joke about it. Please feel free to share your getting-old stories with me! (Or just complain about something that I have written about husband #1…it’s all good.)

Banji Ganchrow is a self-proclaimed writer who still does not take Metamucil in the mornings.

By Banji Latkin Ganchrow