Proving that nothing is new under the sun, here’s Ogden Nash grousing about aging:

When you roll along admiring the view,
And everyone drives too fast but you;
When people not only ignore your advice,
But complain that you’ve given it to them twice;
When you babble of putts you nearly holed,
By gad, Sir,
You are getting old.

When for novels you lose your appetite
Because writers don’t write what they used to write;
When by current art you are unbeguiled,
And pronounce it the work of an idiot child;
When cacophonous music leaves you cold,
By gad, Sir,
You are getting old.

When you twist the sheets from night to morn
To recall when a cousin’s daughter was born;
When youngsters mumble and won’t speak up,
And your dog dodders, who was a pup;
When the modern girl seems a hussy bold,
By gad, Sir,
You are getting old.

When you scoff at feminine fashion trends;
When strangers resemble absent friends;
When you start forgetting the neighbors’ names
And remembering bygone football games;
When you only drop in at the club to scold,
By gad, Sir,
You are getting old.

But when you roar at the income tax,
And slippery bureaucratic hacks,
And the ancient political fish-like smell,
And assert that the world is going to hell,
Why you are not old at all, at all;
By gad, sir,
You are on the ball.

“The Voluble Wheel Chair,” 1952