Two weeks ago, I sat at the head table of a group of 20 senior citizen church members, and I patiently waited to speak to them about the community theatre where I volunteer. They meet at Shoney's like this once a month, taking advantage of the affordable breakfast buffet. After eating for forty-five minutes, they called the meeting to order and announced the upcoming birthdays, anniversaries and church events. Everything went along pleasantly until they got to the part about who was in the hospital. Someone had lung trouble, another had a cyst in their brain, and someone fell and broke their hip. The lady who arranged for me to be the key speaker to their brunch leaned over and whispered to me, "Don't ever get old."

I replied, "I think it's inevitable."

It's a funny thing, this aging process. I've met teenagers scared to death about turning twenty-one because in their eyes that was the last significant birthday. I meet people of all ages craving to go back those wild and crazy days of youth. Adults spend millions upon millions to have their fat sucked out, teeth straightened, hair dyed or replaced, behinds tucked, skin stretched and whatever else "fixed" that they feel is wrong with their bodies. All in attempt to stop the aging process.

But no matter what, if you stick around long enough, you will get old.

I visited my grandmother this weekend, and she took me to see two of her friends at an upscale old folks home. The place had a polite name, and no one called it the old folks home although that's what it was. One of her friends had just moved there. She had two clean bedrooms, and along with two baths, a living room, dining room and kitchen. She was very upbeat and proper. The second friend was 98 years old and stayed in the assisted living section of the complex. I was a little kid when I first met her and her husband, and I remember them giving me some extinct Zebra firecrackers on July 4th (firecrackers were much more powerful in the old days). Now the husband is dead, and she is 98 (although looking well for her age).

My grandmother and her two friends all outlived their husbands and are ultimately filling out their days as best they can. The two friends ultimately decided to enter the old folks home. Partly to continue to be around people and partly out of fear of something happening to them while they were all alone. My grandmother still lives in the same house she has since long before I was born, but I know if she lives long enough, she, too, will enter the upscale old folks home, paying outrageous prices to live near others in safety.

This is happening all over the country. Every single person is getting older. Every second. I am aging while I write this column. You are aging while you read it. Do we revel in the fact that we turn thirty-four, or fifty-two, or seventy-seven? Not most of us. Do we see thirty, forty, fifty, sixty and seventy as milestones? Sort of, we try to conceal it as much as possible. We are all getting older, and the majority of us are more embarrassed with every passing year.

Everyone wants his or her youth back, as if it was the most valuable commodity in the world. Ponce de Leon searched desperately for the Fountain of Youth and only found Florida (which coincidentally is where many old folks still flock). I looked back at a few pictures of youthful me at my grandmother's house. There were many shots of a fresh-faced wiry boy, but I wore a frown as many times as a grin. Sure, I could run around longer without getting tired, but I was also moody, angst-filled and obnoxious. Youth had many perks but just as many pitfalls.

The American culture shuns old age as if it were the new plague. Nobody wants to catch it. This is a trend I wish would be reversed. Every person has incredible stories and experiences, but their tales get covered up along with the wrinkles. We should revel in our ever-lengthening existences. We should figure out what we like to do and try to make it happen. It doesn't matter if we are twelve, thirty-six, sixty-eight or ninety-two. Lord knows we have the time to attempt whatever we want. If we happen to kick the bucket before we accomplish anything, at least our worries about being old will be over.

We are going to die. The real question is how are we going to live. We only get one shot at this, so we might as well give it everything we've got. That's my plan. Use this life for all it's worth. Because if I stick around here long enough to be in the old folks home, I want my ears to be blown out from listening to music, my eyes faded from reading and watching thousands of movies, my fingers numb from typing and scribbling too many words, my legs worn out from climbing the mountain, my heart bleeding from caring too much, my skin scorched from hanging out with the sun, and my mind blown from contemplation and seeking out all of the different perceptions of the life I have led.

And there I will sit, a shriveled up, wasted shell of a man. Occasionally, a person may walk by, see me and ask an attendant, "Who's that?"

The reply will be, "Oh, that's just Mr. Jungle. He's very old."

Chris Jungle aged an hour and a half while writing this.