I am not “of a certain age,” a senior citizen, mature or elderly. I am old, and I embrace that politically incorrect word.

When I turn seventy, I will not pretend to be younger. To young people, there is no difference between a sexagenarian, a septuagenarian, and an octogenarian. Anyone over sixty is seen as an ethereal entity whose ticket for the afterlife will soon be punched.

I am not a ghostly creature reminiscing my life away, I am flesh and bones, albeit with creaky joints and arthritic knees. I am an old man who is living in the here and now and is still making new memories.

Because I am in the winter of my life it does not mean that I am obsessed with what comes next, it means I am determined to make the most of my allotted time.

I may be older than dirt, but I am not six feet under yet. All I ask is a little respect and to be treated as though I still belong in this world.