Question

I've been thinking about a conversation I overheard between my mother and one of her childhood friends. It was probably about 15 years ago.

We were walking ... it was a magnificent Vermont evening just turning to dusk. I was slightly ahead of the two of them, walking one of our series of beloved sheepdogs - far enough in front to
allow her to snuffle and sniff to her heart's content, but close enough to be able to listen in on
their conversation. At first it wasn't a deliberate attempt to eavesdrop, but their discussion intrigued me and I slowed down in order to hear them.

I can't recall who said what, but I'll never forget what they said:

"How did I get to be seventy? I don't feel like I'm seventy."
"I know. I get out of bed in the morning and my feet hurt and my back aches and
I desperately have to pee. But in my heart I'm maybe... twenty-five."
"Exactly. It's so odd. I think I can do things - and I can. But I seem to do them so much more slowly."
"It's like it's me, but it's not me. And the person in the mirror in the in the morning is definitely not me, either. I know I'm in there, but who's that stranger looking back at me?"

And now, from my current perspective, I understand.