The first few years when I was learning to fence, there was a man at the club who fenced all three weapons (foil, epee, and sabre) during adult practice. He was there to participate, and he would bout with anyone, even though he was in his late 70s and even though we celebrated his 80th birthday while I was still at that club. As he got older, he would start asking for a handicap, such as me having to score 15 touches and him only having to score 5. I rarely obliged him, because he was not easy to fence. (I had people in my own age group who were much easier.) He was bumptious, opinionated, candid, and genuinely nice, and I am quite sure he isn’t alive any more, now that I think of it, because that was thirty years ago. He was built square, and sometimes when I beat him, he would stamp his feet like a toddler. He had heart problems. He didn’t let it stop him, though he did have to pause and sit down a lot.

My mother had Parkinson’s Disease; she was diagnosed when she was younger than I am now, and at one point, when the many symptoms were beginning to hinder her considerably, she volunteered for a then-new form of surgery, where wires would be implanted in her brain and would snake to a battery below her collarbone. She was very hopeful. “Maybe I’ll be able to ride a bicycle again,” she said. The surgery was a success, as far as the surgeon was concerned, because it controlled her tremors beautifully. It didn’t control most of the other horrid symptoms of that disease, though. Not only could she not ride a bicycle again, she never quite recovered from the stress of the surgery. When she tried to use a motorized wheelchair she always ended up stuck sidewaysin a corridor wall. She was quite convinced she could use it, though, and she was very angry with all the people who were telling her otherwise.

Last night I was having a hard time getting to sleep, and I tried sleeping face down. I used to be able to do that. It didn’t work. I turned back over, and eventually dropped off, but when I woke up this morning and swung out of bed, my head swum and I recognized I was having vertigo again; I must have dislodged the little crystals in my inner ear canal. I took the medicine the doctor gave me for it, and went downstairs to make my morning tea; while it was steeping I stood over the sink and waited to see if I was going to throw up. I didn’t, not quite.

I had been amusing myself by thinking about going back to fencing, but in epee instead of sabre. It would involve public transportation at night, finding out if I could stand to learn a new discipline, and getting to know unfamiliar people. I would have to change my weekly routine. I would probably have to take a taxi home, too. It was fun thinking about it.

When I woke up with vertigo, I realized I’m probably not going to do any of that. Maybe I’ll take some kind of class, but not that. Whatever I do, it has to be easy to get to and moderately forgiving.

Echoing through my mind was the realization I had Tuesday night on a Zoom meeting that the speaker, a man my age, was old. How can someone who is my age be old? This does not make sense. It’s a cliché, I know, but true nonetheless, that old people are delusional that way.

I heard someone once on the street telling an older man, “You’re only as old as you think you are,” and I muttered to myself, “Not true.” People like to say that age is just a state of mind, too. That’s hogwash. Excuse me while stamp my feet like a toddler and demand a handicap.