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The man looking back at me in the mirror today is one year older. With more lines on his face, a hairline high but holding steady, chin descending, and ears getting even bigger. His fastest marathons are far behind him, and his fitted shirts are beginning to stretch when he sits down. He creaks and groans more than the wooden floor in the morning, and his posture is as curvy as his hair.

But thankfully, his tongue and nose are as healthy and useful as ever. They were the honored guests of The Wife of my youth at a two-hour lunch including a cauldron of salty miso soup, the perfume of hot sake, and the quench of cold beer. Featuring a miraculous sushi roll, which when chewed sent crunchy chunks of cucumber at odd angles with buttery pieces of scallop, all mixing with squeaky roe to create unctuous pods of flavor in every hemisphere of the mouth. Then a chilly walk to the Tivoli for rich chocolate cake, a mango mousse with only the slightest touch of sweetness, and a hot Americano.

Sure, I'm getting old, but life is still good. Better than ever, actually.