I�ve always thought I looked and felt younger than I am.

Well, those days are gone. This past summer � ghastly as it was, in oh so many ways � hastened along the aging process in, well, oh so many ways.

Along about the sixth or seventh day following the derecho disaster, both my knees suddenly went kerflooey. And by �suddenly,� I mean that one hour I was sadly tossing big bags of spoiled food into the Dumpsters, and the next hour, I could barely limp back home.

One of my knees has been tricky for a couple of years, since I took a flying leap across the stage and made a wrong turn in mid-air. I�ve always gone for the comedy and, indeed, the audience laughed. I did not.

Since then, I�ve compensated quite nicely, counting on the good knee. Now, the good knee is worse than the original bad knee. When you only have two knees, there�s no more compensating.

Along about that time, I looked in the mirror one morning and thought, Gads; what the heck happened? Wrinkles � yes, let�s call them what they are � had suddenly appeared where there were none the night before.

I�ve often joked that my secret to looking young is this: A layer of fat plumps out wrinkles and actually gives the skin a dewy appearance. Well, the layer of fat is still there; it just ain�t so smooth any longer.

Women are lucky; we can mask many flaws with cosmetics. Men cannot; yet, on the other hand, men can possess �craggy good looks.� Men can be �ruggedly handsome.� A man might be called a �dashing silver fox.� Gray-haired women who take good care of themselves can only be called �cougars,� once they�re out of earshot.

(And speaking of earshot, well, my auditory capabilities are fading fast, too.)

Back to the cosmetics. I couldn�t wait to be allowed to buy and use them in my teens. During the college years, going �back to nature� was in fashion. Then came Key West, where makeup was a joke: Why put it on when the heat and humidity would simply slide it off? For years, a little lipstick was all I relied upon, or needed.

When I moved to San Francisco, the cosmetic-buying craze kicked in big time. I don�t want to know how much I spent to look absolutely fabulous and urbane.

When I moved back to the mountains, I got �back to nature� yet again. I would not leave the house without earrings and lipstick, but further adornments were unnecessary. Nowadays, I find I must add eyeliner to the mix. Eyeliner is something heretofore alien to me. It requires a steady hand and good eyesight. Oops. I�ve learned to keep the Q-tips handy.

In Key West, I was always dressed to stop traffic. Indeed, a girlfriend and I once caused an accident while biking to the beach in our bikinis. In San Francisco, I wore the requisite gray flannel suit, pink blouse, and heels. The only time I�d be seen in sneakers was pounding the pavement on my way to work. Besides, if an earthquake struck during the day, it would be wise to have a pair of sneakers handy in your desk drawer. Navigating glass and rubble in heels is pure folly.

Ah, I do love my fabulous, eye-catching shoes. I�ve probably collected 87 pairs of them through the decades. Nowadays, they languish in the closets.

I searched far and wide for attractive orthopedic shoes. They do not exist. And I must ask, why not? Many items for the elderly � and I must face the fact that I am � are now geared toward us, the aging Baby Boomers. Consider the snappy new array of decorated canes, for instance. I will order as soon as I find a black one festooned with pink flamingos.

So come on, you savvy shoe designers and manufacturers. We don�t want to settle for sturdy laced oxfords in black or brown, period. We may be old, but we don�t do dowdy. We�re out there, just waiting. And we�ve got plenty of money to spend. Give us emerald green; tempt us with turquoise; promise us pink; zing us with a snazzy zebra print. And instead of a matching purse, offer a matching cane instead.