The One Thing I Know About Aging at Age 85

I was once old, then older and now proudly oldest.

By

Bette Ann Moskowitz

 
Published March 05, 2026
Tara Jacoby

One thing I have learned about aging: sometimes it’s a movable feast, sometimes a troublesome beast, but it’s never just one thing. My first encounter with “old age” was in my 60s, my introduction to Social Security checks, Medicare and the prospect of retirement.

It was surprising. I didn’t feel old. Like many others in their 60s, I was healthy, vigorous, busy, immersed in my family life and the writing/teaching career I had built. When I looked in the mirror at 65, I didn’t see what I imagined someone entering old age looked like. I saw the “me” I had always been. So the official moment came and went, and though being older became part of my identity, I did not retire and my life did not change very much.

Other people my age made different decisions. Having worked for a good chunk of their lives, they opted to retire while still feeling young. Their 60s became a time to relax, refresh, recover old hobbies, start new ones, play golf and take up quilting. If they missed the camaraderie of a workplace, they started new careers, joined clubs or went back to school. Some refurbished old dreams.

My daughter’s grade school teacher became an antiques dealer. An accountant I knew started doing stand-up comedy. For a lot of us, with children out of the house, a new mobility took hold and our 60s were a time to downsize, move South to warmer climates and easier winters.

My husband and I “upsized,” going from an apartment in the city to our country house in Woodstock, New York. In our 60s, we had the freedom to start again and the lingering ignorance of our youthful old age. Our 60s were a happy time for us and many others: all external, moving parts, moving people. We did not yet understand how the hazards of extreme winters might affect us, so we opted to go all in. No snowbirding for us.

By our 70s, many of the changes we made were settled. People I knew earned those long delayed graduate degrees or their jewelry-making venture died but led to the perfect little two-days-a-week job in a boutique, which they did for love and pocket money. Our home upstate was newly furnished, and the cushions on the new furniture were beginning to have the imprint of frequent visitors.

With enthusiasm, we started new routines and traditions: yard sales in autumn, communal dinners in winter, trail hikes in the spring. We no longer mocked people who ate dinner at 5:30 p.m. or nodded off in the late afternoon. Bedtime by 10 p.m. was not unusual. And we were becoming aware of changes in our bodies: vision, hearing, knees and hips. 

When I looked in the mirror, I still didn’t see someone “old,” though I no longer took it for granted and I began feeling proud and grateful. My husband and I were relieved that we had been smart enough to buy a house in Woodstock that was all on one level. 

By our late 70s, we both had cataracts removed and the world was full of color again. But the perfect circle of our life was being nibbled around the edges by constant news of illnesses and deaths of acquaintances, relatives and friends who didn’t seem to have the luck we had. 

That was until the day my husband had his first heart attack. Suddenly, fear became part of our lives. Words like “rehab” and “cardiopulmonary” and “medication side effects” became part of our daily lexicon. Old age became real. Yet we adjusted, keeping up our routines, creating new ones. We adopted a dog so my husband would step up his walking regimen and we became dog-obsessed “pet parents.” This was unexpectedly delightful!

Two months short of my 80th birthday, my husband of 58 years died of a stroke. This landmark birthday was spent mourning and masked, since everyone was in COVID lockdown. So you could say, by any metric, my world changed. I was faced with this question: aside from widowhood, what does being in my 80s mean? How is it different from the 60s and 70s of old age?

Well, at 85, I am still here. I didn’t die young. I say that a lot. I like the sound of it.

But at 85, old age is serious and includes more loss — of loved ones, of faculties and of skills. Senses deteriorate; bones may ache. Even so, I am still doing a mile uphill every day walking the dog. Do I give up driving? No, but a recent fender-bender has me more cautious about driving. I don’t drive at night. Do I let someone “assist” my living? No!

My hearing is still good, my vision is sharp, but I have no sense of taste and smell, a sad and significant loss. Being cheerful can be a challenge. When I look in the mirror, I see a gray-haired old dame who doesn’t reflect the inner me, a girl who still giggles when people get too solemn and can’t help dancing when the music plays.

Yet I have reached a milestone and a long view. In fact, I believe the job of being old in my 80s is to be wise. If I want to survive, I have to give up what I cannot keep, whether it is too many sweaters and books or youthful habits like martinis straight up. I don’t catastrophize when some small thing goes wrong. I learned not to be mad at my own body when I hurt. And, I don’t tough it out unless I have to. I take it slow. Easy does it.

Bette Ann Moskowitz is a former songwriter, writer of fiction (Leaving Barney and Reading the Signs: A Schoolhouse Mystery) and nonfiction (the memoir, Do I Know You: A Family’s Journey Through Aging and Alzheimer’s and Finishing Up: On Aging and Ageism). Her most recent novel, Three Legs in the Evening was published in 2023. She is a past recipient of the New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Nonfiction. Her blog, Vinegar Mother (vinegarmother.wordpress.com), is five years old and still ongoing. 

Bette Ann Moskowitz is a former songwriter, writer of fiction (Leaving Barney and Reading the Signs: A Schoolhouse Mystery) and non-fiction (the memoir, Do I Know You: A Family’s Journey Through Aging and Alzheimer’s and Finishing Up: On Aging and Ageism). Her most recent novel, Three Legs in the Evening, was published in 2023. She is a past recipient of the New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Non-Fiction. Her blog, Vinegar Mother (vinegarmother.wordpress.com) is eight years old and still ongoing.