Bette Davis famously asserted, “Getting old is not for sissies,” but from my philosophical perch, getting old IS for sissies, for the craven as well as the brave. No choice. Aging clarifies, straightens priorities, concentrates the mind. On good days it grants a deep acceptance, in Buddhist terms, “cutting the expectation for a cure.” In my late thirties I wrote, “We spend our lives waiting—to be rescued, to be killed.” At nearly seventy-four, I know there will be no rescue, pace our sad shared fantasies of posthumous glory. Age has revealed my true nature to me—what is in my ken and beyond. I try not to fret as much about my limitations or eccentricities.