Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2016.

It’s OK if you don’t want to read this column.

When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine reading anything written by someone 90 years old. I just turned 90, so you’re free to go.

Ninety, of course, is almost an unheard-of age. Why would anyone want to stick around that many years?

Well, let me tell you.

Despite the drawbacks, 90 is still worth living.

Sure, I’m not the dancing, prancing young one I used to be, but with the help of my husband’s arm, I’m still having fun.

We recently got back from a 1,500-mile driving trip around Ireland.

This summer, we’re planning a three-week trip to Maine, with a 10-day cross-country driving trip home.

In 2017, we hope to go to Dubai.

We’re not closing the books yet.

The best thing in life is having someone to love, and I have a tribe.

At 91, Rowland says he doesn’t feel much different from the way he did at 18.

That’s not quite true for me; I am acutely aware of the differences — eyesight that’s going, hearing that’s shot and a sense of balance that’s increasingly undependable.

Not that you want to hear all my ailments. I believe that “nobody really cares if you’re miserable, so you might as well be happy.” I’m just filling you in so you have the proper context when I say we celebrated my 90th birthday a few weeks ago.

I admit there are days when I feel so wobbly I hesitate to get out of bed. And then I remember that my breakfast grapefruit is waiting, and I perk up. I really love that breakfast grapefruit.

At the same time, I recall that we have a bunch of dates to keep — an evening with our book club, a night at the ballet, lunches with several old friends, an upcoming wedding and dinner with my women’s group — the pleasures are many.

I spend hours every day with the newspapers — the Chronicle and the IJ — and just keeping up with the whirl of world events makes my mind race happily.

Or even unhappily: the churn of bad news, from ISIS killings to senseless shootings to huge drops in the stock market, gives another worldview, one that never fails to fascinate. It can seem daunting sometimes, but I’m still grateful to be part of it all.

At age 90 or age 25, life always has its treats.

I’ve been blessed with a large extended family — nieces and nephews, in-laws and grandchildren.

My loved ones include a slew of friends, the accumulation of years. Friends fill my heart. They fill my calendar.

My biggest treasures, of course, are my sons — Ken, Pete, Gil and Guy. Without them, this would have been a half-life.

No treasure is more precious than my husband — the man I married six years ago and who continues to be the central joy of every day. How did I get so lucky? (He is amazingly patient with all my infirmities, all my needs.)

So here I am at 90, an age I can hardly believe. If I have any moments of self-pity, they stem from the knowledge that life doesn’t go on forever, and I’m edging ever closer to the end.

But Rowland plans to live to be 100 and urges me to stick with him.

I mock the idea as always. But who knows? I made it to 90, didn’t I?