I have made several personal discoveries about aging as the golden era envelopes me. Comprehension of its impact on one’s physical and mental abilities seems to come and go as frequently as the sunrise. And it continues to be a surprising revelation each time you rediscover that you can’t put a name to a familiar face, or that rising from a crisscross applesauce position on the floor is seldom achievable without looking like one of those hip hop, robot poppin’ dancers.

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To the editor: While on my way to work Friday I passed by the post office and observed a small group of people seemingly protesting the president. One of the pictures of the president had a Hitler-style mustache drawn on his face.