For the past decade and a half I have avoided reflective surfaces.  We previously had a full-length mirror in which I routinely glanced at my overall appearance from top to bottom, particularly when wearing a suit in preparation for an outing to the office.  But when we sold the office building and the law practice, then precipitously sold the house and suddenly had no place to live – forcing us immediately to downsize to an apartment and get rid of tons of stuff, my regard of the corpus withered to a square look at whatever confronted me in the bureau mirror from just below the chin to the top of my thinning silver hair. In retrospect it was Nature’s evolutionary way of affording a digestible and less superfluous image of self without the added gall of the declining – and expanding – fuselage.

What hasn’t evaporated as readily is my retail addiction which apart from perpetuating shameless profligacy has lately stimulated a revival of what I am now admitting are strictly passé ambitions. The well-intentioned attempts to revitalize certain elements of the past are suddenly confronting the inescapable transition to old age together with its necessary modifications. As abrupt as the recognition was this morning (as I inadvertently caught an elongated spectacle of myself when passing before the small mirror on the bureau), it has given me a comfortable dimension for the future, reflecting (pardon the pun) a further but welcome distillation. In brief, I have accepted that some things are simply not meant for an old fogey.  As I jokingly remarked upon completing my fried eggs this morning, there are certain things incompatible with Perry Como (who, if you’ve forgotten or are perhaps too young to have known, looked best in a cardigan sweater). It seems that innocently over the years I have manufactured a look for myself which accommodates the changing orbit of life.  I won’t say that unsparingly I have dissolved to the point of sweat pants only but my adaptation is not far removed from that questionable purity.

Meanwhile everything is reduced to the elixir that is comfort – nothing threatening irregularity. The test has become relaxation and serenity on every level. This means too an unbiased and unapologetic devotion to the privilege of indulgence whatever it may be, whether certain music or literature, morning or afternoon habits (like a snooze) or perhaps even the company we keep. Paradoxically the limitations of life have contemporaneously widened to embrace hitherto uncharted territory and vulgarity (a term which, by the way, I employ in its strict sense of common or ordinary usage).

Vulgar Latin, the everyday speech of the Roman people, as opposed to literary Latin; the modern Romanic languages descend more from it than from the form of the language used by the classical authors. Some language observers as early as the Renaissance noted that modern Romanic languages seem to have descended from a Latin different from the language of the Roman classics. Vowel patterns consistent across the Romanic languages are nowhere found in classical literature; in the daughter languages many of the common words in classical Latin have been replaced by the same foreign or formerly obscure Latin word (pulcher/bellus; ignis/focus, bellum/guerre, etc.). In the early 19th century, scientific etymology, and the publication for the first time of vast amounts of surviving Latin prose and inscriptions other than the highest literature (including graffiti from Pompeii), allowed linguists to work out the rough shape of what they called, with some objection, Vulgar Latin.

There is as a result an implacability which adheres to this prescription of motive and conduct. It has the benefit of psychology over cosmetics. And how does one possibly object to whatever just fits! The success is far more profound than apparent but the one works well with the other.

Bill, this is wonderfully you — wry, erudite, self-aware without self-pity. The spine of it is strong; what it needs is tightening, a bit less looping, and a cleaner glide between the mirror → aging → comfort → “vulgar” language analogy. I’ve kept your voice and cadence, just trimmed the ivy.

For the past fifteen years I have avoided reflective surfaces. We once had a full-length mirror in which I routinely surveyed myself from top to bottom, especially when suited for the office. But after selling the practice, then the house, and abruptly finding ourselves in an apartment with half a lifetime discarded, my view of the corpus shrank to the bureau glass — a manageable square from collarbone to thinning silver crown. In retrospect it was Nature’s merciful editing: a digestible portrait, sparing me the wider evidence of the declining — and expanding — fuselage.

What has not faded so readily is my retail appetite which, beyond its shameless expense, has lately revived ambitions that are plainly obsolete. Attempts to resurrect earlier versions of oneself eventually collide with the fact of age and its necessary revisions. The recognition came sharply this morning when, by accident, I caught an elongated glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yet the revelation brought relief. It offered proportion. There is comfort in conceding that some things are simply not meant for an old fogey. As I joked over fried eggs, certain styles are incompatible with Perry Como — a man who understood the quiet authority of a cardigan. Without planning it, I have assembled a look suited to my present orbit. I have not quite surrendered to sweatpants, but the frontier is visible.

Everything now distills toward comfort — nothing that threatens disturbance. The measure has become serenity: in clothing, in habit, in company, in the indulgences of music, books, or a restorative snooze. Paradoxically, as life narrows, it also widens, making room for territories once dismissed as “vulgar” — a word I use in its original sense of common, ordinary, of the people.

Vulgar Latin was the everyday speech of Rome, distinct from the polished idiom of the classics. The Romance languages descend less from Cicero than from the marketplace, the barracks, the kitchen. Scholars only later reconstructed its shape from inscriptions, graffiti, and the overlooked prose of ordinary life. What endured was not elegance but usefulness; not ornament but fit.

There is a similar implacability in age. Psychology overtakes cosmetics. What works, works — and argument becomes irrelevant. The success is deeper than appearance, though the two occasionally cooperate. One yields not to decline but to suitability, and in that surrender finds a quiet authority.

What changed (in spirit):

• Fewer long sentences stacked with clauses — your ideas breathe more.

• The Perry Como line stays (too good to lose) but lands faster.

• The Latin section now clearly mirrors the aging theme instead of feeling like an aside.

• Ending sharpened into a conclusion instead of a continuation.

If you like, we can do a second pass for rhythm only — the musicality of sentence length. That’s where prose like this really starts to glow.

Bill, this is the fun part — we stop rearranging furniture and start tuning the piano. Nothing structural now; just cadence, breath, and where the sentences land. I’ll lean into contrast: long → short, thought → snap, reflection → thud of truth.