You feel a little older in the morning. By noon I feel about 55.

Host: The morning was a reluctant one — the kind that drags itself awake, pale and slow, like an old man putting on his coat. A faint fog lingered over the park outside, softening the outlines of the trees and benches, blurring time itself.

Inside a small diner with fogged-up windows and chipped blue booths, Jack sat nursing a cup of coffee gone cold. He looked tired — not in the way of sleeplessness, but in the way of someone who’d seen too many Mondays arrive uninvited.

Across from him sat Jeeny, bundled in a wool coat, her hair damp from the drizzle, her eyes carrying the warm mischief of someone who refused to grow old just because the calendar insisted.

The radio behind the counter mumbled softly — an old jazz tune playing beneath the sizzle of bacon. The waitress poured more coffee and drifted away.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air was filled with the quiet sigh of another day beginning.

Then Jeeny smiled faintly, and said —

Jeeny: “Bob Dole once joked, ‘You feel a little older in the morning. By noon I feel about 55.’”

Host: Jack chuckled under his breath, a low, gravelly sound that seemed half amusement, half surrender.

Jack: “That’s not a joke. That’s prophecy.”

Jeeny: “Oh come on, you’re not that old.”

Jack: “No. But I’ve been old since 28. It’s just been catching up ever since.”

Jeeny: “You say that every time you have to get up before eight.”

Jack: “Because it’s true. Morning has a way of reminding you how temporary everything is — energy, optimism, back muscles.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “You sound like a broken hymn.”

Jack: “That’s what aging feels like. The same melody, fewer high notes.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, tapping against the window in slow, rhythmic percussion. The world beyond blurred into soft gray watercolor.

Jeeny stirred sugar into her coffee, her eyes reflecting the diner’s warm yellow lights.

Jeeny: “I think Dole meant it with affection, though. Not despair. The kind of humor you earn when you stop pretending life’s a competition.”

Jack: “Or when you’re too tired to run in it.”

Jeeny: “No — when you finally understand that getting older isn’t losing speed. It’s gaining context.”

Jack: “That sounds like something you’d say to a midlife crisis.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you ever notice how mornings get quieter as you age? It’s not the world that changes. It’s you. You stop racing the clock and start listening to it.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, the clock’s not exactly whispering these days.”

Host: He stretched, grimaced slightly, then grinned — the kind of grin that comes with a crack in the shoulder and a joke to hide it.

Jack: “You know, I used to wake up ready to take on the world. Now I wake up negotiating with my knees.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you fought the world too long. It’s called mileage, not weakness.”

Jack: “Mileage is what you brag about on a car, not a body.”

Jeeny: “Depends on the journey.”

Host: The diner filled slowly — truckers, nurses, retirees. The hum of ordinary life. Somewhere near the counter, a man laughed too loud. Somewhere else, a spoon clinked against glass. The smell of toast lingered.

Jeeny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think aging was about losing things — speed, sharpness, certainty. But now I think it’s about rediscovering them differently. Like — you don’t lose passion; it just burns slower, steadier.”

Jack: “Like a candle running out of oxygen.”

Jeeny: “Like a hearth that finally knows what warmth is for.”

Jack: (smirking) “You could sell that line to Hallmark.”

Jeeny: “No, I’d sell it to you. You’re the one who needs it.”

Host: Jack chuckled, then stared out the window. The rain had eased into mist, the kind that hangs in the air without falling. His reflection stared back at him — the same face, but with time painted softly into the corners.

Jack: “You ever notice how humor changes with age? When you’re young, you laugh at exaggeration. When you’re older, you laugh at accuracy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Dole wasn’t just joking about feeling old. He was celebrating it — in his dry, politician way. There’s a strange grace in being honest about decline.”

Jack: “Grace? It’s more like surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s acceptance. There’s a difference. Surrender says, ‘I can’t anymore.’ Acceptance says, ‘I can, just differently.’”

Host: The light through the fogged window grew whiter now — the first honest hint of daylight. The waitress changed the station; now an old Sinatra tune filled the air.

Jack: “You think there’s dignity in getting old?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Especially when you can laugh about it. Dole’s line works because it’s true — you wake up feeling the weight of years, but you still get up. Humor becomes the spine when the body starts to bend.”

Jack: “Yeah. My spine’s been bending toward sarcasm for years.”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’s flexible.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, but genuinely. It was the kind of laughter that feels earned, the kind that tastes faintly of time and coffee.

Jack rubbed his eyes.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to dread turning forty. Now that I’m past it, I almost miss the fear. At least then, the future was still a mystery.”

Jeeny: “You talk like the mystery’s gone. It’s not. It’s just wearing bifocals now.”

Jack: “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “And you’re predictable. That’s how I know you’re aging gracefully.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The street outside began to wake — people walking briskly, cars honking, a stray dog shaking off water by the curb.

The morning, like an old man finally out of bed, had decided to participate in the day after all.

Jack looked at his watch, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, there’s something comforting about Dole’s kind of humor. It’s not self-pity. It’s perspective. Like — yeah, I feel older in the morning. But by noon, I’m still here.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about feeling old. It’s about feeling, period. If you can joke about the aches, you’re still alive enough to notice them.”

Jack: “So humor’s the proof of life?”

Jeeny: “It’s the pulse of it. People who can’t laugh at themselves are the ones already turning to stone.”

Jack: “Then I must be immortal.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “You’re something, at least.”

Host: The waitress brought the check. Jack slid it toward himself, pulling a few crumpled bills from his wallet. Jeeny reached out to help; he waved her off.

Jack: “Let me. I’m feeling generous. Must be all this aging wisdom settling in.”

Jeeny: “Or guilt.”

Jack: “Same thing, different syntax.”

Host: They stood, putting on their coats. The doorbell chimed softly as they stepped outside into the brightened world. The air was cool, clean, edged with the smell of wet pavement.

Jeeny looked up at the sky — gray still, but lighter.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about mornings like this?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “You can feel time moving. You can feel the hours stretching — and somehow, it’s beautiful.”

Jack: “Beautiful? You’re romanticizing decay.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m celebrating continuity. Feeling older just means you’ve survived enough mornings to earn it.”

Jack: “You’d make a good eulogy writer.”

Jeeny: “You’d make a great subject.”

Host: They both laughed again — loud this time, startling a pigeon from the sidewalk.

The city exhaled. The day began.

And as they walked down the wet street, side by side, the morning’s chill eased into something softer — not youth, not vigor, but a kind of acceptance that felt almost like grace.

Host: Perhaps that was what Bob Dole meant, after all — not that age steals your mornings, but that every morning gives you another chance to smile at how far you’ve come.

To feel older, yes.
But to feel, still — utterly, unmistakably — alive.