"I don't like this book," I said as I threw it down. I surprised myself. Everyone loves this book. It is the commonly accepted celebration of old age. It is filled with "heart warming tales" and poems about old folks, and is loved by everyone I talked to about it.
Never mind which book it is. I know you love it, because everyone loves it. I don't want to open myself to your scorn for my bad taste.
I don't want to celebrate my old age any more than I would celebrate the loose tooth in my mouth that wobbles and wiggles but won't fall out, and is too much trouble to go to the dentist and have pulled. It is an accouterment of old age, and not worth cheering. It is an evil that come of being "super-annuated". I'm proud to be eighty, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. It is better than the alternative, they say. I'm not going to write a poem about it, nor am I going to read any more of them.
I am an old person who likes to love, but spare me any stories of octogenarians in bed. That's when I threw the book down. I bought it, but I don't have to read it, thank you.