I don’t understand my peer group. Recently, I’ve noticed they enjoy a La-Z-Boy life, usually with their companion animal lying next to them and a thermos of water in an attached cupholder. Some spend nights in their La-Z-Boys finding them more comfortable than a bed. They surround themselves with electronic equipment and a bag of chips nearby in case they suffer a bout of hunger.

When I visit one of my L. friends, I notice they stumble over their words, have trouble completing a sentence, and rarely listen to the end of a story I have to tell. I suggest we go for a walk and am met with a look of disdain, as though I have suggested we go dig for worms and spend the afternoon fishing. Whenever I proffer the idea they might like a hobby, they hold up a tote bag full of yarn and tell me about all the projects they intend to start any day now. They’ve even learned chair exercises from their laptops but rarely do them.

When I bring up the importance of movement to keep their brains and body agile, they stop returning my calls. Yes, sad to say, I’m stricken from their contact lists and no doubt replaced by another L. person happy to slouch into a life of phone chatter and crossword puzzles. I now cast about for younger friends, although miss the old ones, the ones who revered Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and marched against the Vietnam war and voted for women’s rights. Nothing stays the same, but fortunately, I have a dog and enjoy endless walks and the abundance of nature while drifting on the gentle breeze of aging.

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