90 may be the new 50 -- but it doesn't matter in the long run

The late Maurice Chevalier, who continued to perform during the German occupation of France, sang a catchy tune (as others of his were), called "I'm so glad I'm not young any more." Aside from the delusional strain in such a statement, there is a grain of satisfaction derived from it.
For those of us "octo's", there is the satisfaction that the school bully of yore can't do us harm anymore, He is probably dead or likely at the very least decrepit.
Then there is the matter of dating and mating. For us married types, there is no more worrying where the next date (ahem!) is coming from. The fraught quest for a wife, in hopes that one will not be mistaken, as all too often happens, has also gone away for most of us.
For those of us not on a nine-to-five schedule, there is a world of choice before us. We are masters of our own agendas. And last but not least, in the age of the Internet, and in the insouciance of advancing years, one need no longer be inclined to keep one's thoughts to oneself.
One of my favorite (posted) aphorisms is, "The alternatives are great! I have to die anyway." Which leads me to the problem of going through THAT DOOR. No one, trance-addicted, comatose, or whatever, has known what is on the other side. Once we do, we will presumably learn whether the immaculate and infallible religious lore that we absorbed as children is, or is not (pardon my French) abracadabrantesque.
So even though at 90, we think we feel at 50, the order of things does not change. Whether we have less decrepitude than others as we come near to death may be of satisfaction for some of us, but it will not stop the reckoning, whenever that may be.
In sum, for us "octo's," surrounded by delightful choices that are not always available to our younger compatriots, the watchword is: we don't need to worry; we just need to wait.