One Word: Octogenarian
✍️Writer’s Note
A small reflection prompted by an impertinent question and answered, with some reluctance, by a factual word. One Word: Octogenarian is less about age as decline than about age as perspective: slower in movement perhaps, but not necessarily poorer in observation. It is a light piece, though not entirely without seriousness. Behind the irony lie memory, gratitude, and the modest art of learning to live agreeably with time.
What is one word that describes you?
LETTERS TO THE PROMPT
“Age is a matter of mind. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
—Anonymus
The prompt produced one of its intrusive little questions again this morning, no doubt under the impression that human beings can be reduced to a single serviceable word.
What is the one word that describes me?
The answer, I fear, is: octogenarian.
It is not a poetic word. It does not sing, sparkle, or flatter. It merely states the facts with the cold efficiency of a civil servant. Still, accuracy has its merits. It places me among that small and rather distinguished company of people who have reached their eighties and still look forward to spring — that wonderful season when the daffodils return, the roses stir again, and nature quietly reminds us that renewal remains one of its oldest habits.
What does that mean in daily life?
It means, for one thing, that when I take my morning walk, I now move rather like a duck and at the speed of a snail. I have also acquired the habit of using a walking stick, which may suggest wisdom, though in truth it is chiefly an instrument for negotiating with gravity.
And then there is Colossus.
He is my imaginary companion: overconfident, all-knowing, omnipresent, benevolent in theory, and slightly smug in practice. He appears uninvited, usually when I am minding my own business, and offers observations with the sort of insolence only an imaginary friend can afford.
Now and then, when I am walking at my dignified but unhurried pace, he murmurs: “You used to run, and much faster.”
And if I ignore that, he continues: “There are many things you used to do faster and better. Let me do the thinking, otherwise you may trip over your own shoes.”
And of course, he is right, which only makes him more intolerable.
There are indeed many things I once did faster, and probably a few that I did better. I walk more slowly now, and with a stick where once I ran. I still feel, from time to time, a mild envy when runners pass me by, though fortunately not enough to join them. There are also things I now see differently, and priorities have rearranged themselves without consulting me first. The irony of that is not lost on me, nor is a certain measure of cynicism entirely foreign to my nature.
Yet when I think about memory, and about how much of a human life depends on that fragile architecture of the brain, I realise I have little to complain about. The physical machinery may creak now and then, but it still serves me reasonably well. I still recognise the morning, still think my thoughts, still look forward to spring and to the sunrise. That too is what an octogenarian does.
If I look around me, I see a world full of challenges and contradictions — in politics, history, culture, and personal life. The world also looks different at this age. One becomes less eager to rush into every polemic of the day. Perspective changes. Time, after all, is an excellent editor.
Society has not become more graceful or more agreeable, and one notices more easily the noise, the carelessness, the self-importance, and the easy mockery. One also learns, with some reluctance and some amusement, that we are masters of very little.
With age comes not wisdom at every moment, but perhaps a better sense of selection. One chooses one’s books more carefully, one’s music more gratefully, one’s company more sparingly, and one’s irritations more economically. What becomes more important is to lead an agreeable life: with good books, good music, a few agreeable acquaintances, and a certain peace with one’s own habits and limitations. In the end, character has much to do with happiness.
And still I look forward to each new spring and each sunrise. That too is what an octogenarian does.
As Golda Meir once said: “Old age is like a plane flying through a storm. Once you’re aboard, there’s nothing you can do.” Variants of this line are widely attributed to her. ugh.
But one may still look out of the window, observe the clouds with interest, and be quietly pleased if, despite a few suspicious noises, the machinery continues to behave itself.
September, 2026
📌Blog excerpt
What is the one word that describes me? The answer, I fear, is octogenarian. Not a poetic word, perhaps, but an accurate one — and accuracy has its merits. A light reflection on age, memory, spring, walking sticks, imaginary companions, and the quiet art of looking out of the window while the storm passes.
