Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2008.

For my birthday, I got the usual sniggering cards. One, with three monkeys on the front, said: “Couldn’t believe my eyes. Couldn’t believe my ears. Couldn’t believe how old you are!”

Me too.

It’s kind of amazing to have lived this long — way past the years of two husbands, and even one son.

I wake up every morning with gladness: how lucky I continue to be. What fun it is to partake of life’s goodies: love, beauty, books, a good sleep and hot coffee.

But old age is distinctly a mixed blessing.

I wake up, but the body I haul out of bed is much less springy than it used to be.

And who is that creature I see in the mirror? She smiles back at me, but how come everything sags? Oh well, life happens. Age happens.

The other night I went — somewhat reluctantly — to see a movie called “Young At Heart.” It’s advertised as a joyful depiction of old people who sing and give concerts. I resisted, suspecting it would be condescending. With all our other woes, we old people do not need to be condescended to.

The movie was a mixed bag of sass and tears, tenderness and strength. The music — everything from the Rolling Stones to Jimi Hendrix — was a big plus. I found my feet tapping in spite of myself.

My biggest argument with the film was its presentation of old people as miraculous because they can sing, move, smile and have fun.

Old people are human beings who have lived longer than other beings, but are pretty much who they were when they were young — if not more so.

I, for one, am confounded when someone thinks it’s “cute” for an old person to say something witty — or aspire to adventure, love, a new skill or fashion. We aren’t dead yet, though we will be soon enough.

The transition from middle to old age is subtle, but real.

Suddenly my sons, whom I guarded from danger all their young years, are guarding me. They take my arm when we cross the street. They bring me a chair.

Nephew Bruce insists on driving me to medical appointments in Santa Rosa. Granddaughter Kelly, 7, who now lives with me, walks me down the sidewalk to my car.

Of course, I welcome this concern, and in some cases really need it. But it’s difficult, giving up the master role.

So much of my lifetime was spent being in charge. Though I recognize my role is changing, old habits die hard.

I still have advice to give, opinions to express.

I am a tad more careful in what I say, of course, not wanting to seem intrusive, inflexible or doddering.

With age comes wisdom, too: I realize that motions aren’t necessarily going to change their minds.

When my boys were growing up, we were in a constant give-and-take with each other: They wanted to say yes to everything. I very often said no. Now they make their own decisions, and I sit back and abide. Or cringe. Or applaud.

For the most part, at my advanced age, I get along well with them and the rest of the world.

Friends and family were most kind on my birthday: They sent cards, emails and flowers.

Carol gave me Barbara Walters’ new book, which I’ve been reading ever since. Pete gave me a book about Nancy Pelosi — he knows I’m a political junkie.

Over dinner at a Kentfield restaurant, my family (and some of the diners) sang happy birthday.

Heaven knows I loved the attention.

So now I am even older than last year, lucky me. I am old, and reasonably healthy, and still sane enough to hold a conversation or write feature stories for the Marin IJ.

You’re welcome to say whatever you want — but please don’t call me cute.