Denial — declaring something to be untrue. It’s hard to deny one’s age when children muck up fantasy — an eldest child planning his retirement for example, or the youngest becoming a grandfather. Getting a grip on this aging thing isn’t about denying the facts, it’s more about accepting the realities of getting old although they’re unbelievable.

There couldn’t be a better time for me to have a laptop computer to write my column. I’m sitting on the couch, pillows supporting my back. My legs are stretched out in front with additional pillows under my right knee that’s wrapped in a tight brace and balancing an ice pack. There couldn’t be a better time to discuss aging annoyances that I find hard to believe.

So, I’m out for my usual walk, decide to pick up the pace, don’t see the glitch in the sidewalk, and trip. Never a problem in my youthful running days, I’d regroup and continue on unscathed. And I did continue on after this latest trip (a bit of lingering denial), but not without consequences in the form of a badly sprained knee, very aggravated arthritis, and orders to elevate, ice, immobilize with brace, and stay put for at least five days. In my mature moments I’m very grateful I didn’t break anything, but being grounded is mind-boggling.

Lots of aging stuff is hard to believe. Yesterday I could hear my infant’s little squeak from the next room and today I struggle with television volume and a simple conversation with friends. Also hard to fathom the amount of money shelled out for hearing aids to fix those issues. While I do enjoy buying a new outfit or two every season and don’t groan much about size 12, it’s hard to imagine this bod was once size eight.

Recovering from my sprained knee, I’m ready to get back to walking. Challenging to grasp that I’ve decided to keep to an easy pace, not push speed or distance, and possibly use a walking stick. Finally back on two feet, it’s lunch with the girls — a small salad with dressing on the side. Returning home, I make some tea and devour 15 Hershey kisses. Seems discipline in some areas isn’t as important as my younger self thought it was, and that’s not easy to reckon with. While I smack my chocolate covered lips, I send a text to a gal I’ve known all my life.

For years our only contact has been Christmas letters. I felt it was important to reconnect, to catch up, to touch base and say I miss you, because it’s difficult to tackle the reality of losing five other good friends in as many years.

And then there’s the issue of supplements. I’m fortunate so far to have avoided prescription medications, but the number of vitamins, minerals, pro and prebiotics I down each morning is a bit rough to swallow. As humorously suggested in a health magazine article, I must be planning to die healthy.

Extra chins are hard to believe, and I give no credence to weird new skin shoots and my inability to bend and cut my toenails without heavy breathing.

Also difficult to wrap my head around is the fact that last July a beautiful baby girl was born, our sixth great-granddaughter. OMG! When did my grandchildren become adults having babies? Aren’t I too young for this stuff?

I was behind a slow-moving car in the grocery store parking lot. The driver eventually pulled into a “seniors only” space. I parked next to him in a regular parking spot. The gentleman who got out of the “seniors only” car was a distinguished, well-dressed older guy. As I exited my Jeep he said, “Sorry I was so slow, it sure is tough to get old.”  “No problem,” I replied, “I understand and think you might be right.” He smiled broadly and said, “Well, since we’re both in the same boat, would you like to go for a drink?”

In the same boat?  What boat was the dude talking about? Surely, he wasn’t referring to me as old. I’m positive I don’t look old.  Am I in denial? Or maybe it’s all just unbelievable!

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. Her stories have been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She’s written two novels and one fitness book. cmkstudio2@gmail.com