I believe I have finally found a term for aging that works for me and might work for many of my friends who absolutely refuse to call themselves senior citizens.

Not only am I growing old, but my name is being phased out. I wonder if other people whose names also begin with O followed by an apostrophe, as in O'Grady, are having my experience with their surnames.

Early this summer, I said goodbye to my beloved 1999 Olds Intrigue, dark green, beige leather interior. It even had Cadillac padding in the front seat — one of my bargaining chips when I bought it at the late Foley-Rice dealership.

Ilene Beckerman's book Love, Loss and What I Wore — now a play by Nora and Delia Ephron — was first published in 1995. I gave it to several of my friends as gifts. It's a playful, poignant book about important events in women's lives, happy or sad, and how we can picture what we were wearing at the time. I invite you to share your memorable outings and outfits.

Welcome to my blog about aging, which I'm doing in Oak Park, thank God. My generation of postwar women has gone through enormous change — some of it gut wrenching, like divorce and endless wars, and some bracing and challenging, like civil rights, sexuality and feminism. About 20 years ago, I heard a sermon quoting futurist Faith Popcorn saying that middle age lasted from age 50 to 70. I breathed a sigh of relief, but now my number is up.