I watched a lady getting onto the 32 bus; she had a cane and very white hair, and getting onto the bus was hard going for her. I slid over a few seats in the senior citizen section, so she wouldn’t have to hobble far on a swaying bus.

The lady sitting opposite her also had a cane. This other lady was a dark and rumpled-looking person; her hair wasn’t white, but her posture was old. She leaned forward to say something to the white-haired lady about her cane. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“It’s adjusted to my height,” answered the white-haired lady. “I just had a knee replacement, and I’m getting the other one done. I’m 75.”

“I’m not ever going to do that,” said the rumpled woman. At least I think that was what she said. I took her to mean she wasn’t getting a knee replacement.  

“I had a lot of friends who had joint replacements and recovered completely,” I contributed.

The upright, trim-looking man opposite me said, “I’ve had a double knee replacement, and I’m still running.”

 I said. “They say the artificial joints these days are good for 20 years.”

“I’ll be in my 90s then, and I’ll figure something else out,” the trim man said.

A woman sitting farther back got up and briskly walked past us at her stop, announcing as she passed, “I’ve had a double hip replacement, and I’m still running marathons.” 

Then the white-haired lady got off herself, moving slowly, holding on, breathing hard. She was a year older than me, but she looked ten or twenty years older.

“I can’t believe I had to have cataract surgery,” said the man, and we commiserated with one another, because what the ophthalmologist doesn’t tell you is that you often end up with massive floaters after the cataract surgery, even with the laser follow-up we had both gotten. 

I got off the bus feeling a little odd. There we were, all in our mid-70s, and yet we didn’t appear to be anything like the same age. Except for the surgery, and except for all of us sitting in the senior citizen seats. And except to anyone young.