I just finished reading “We Actually Get Nicer With Age” (Personal Journal, April 22), and I am furious. I am almost 81 years old, and I strongly resent anybody, especially someone who doesn’t know me, telling me that I am getting nicer.
I started out being a happy, pleasant, easy-going individual many decades ago. Gradually, I turned into a grizzled, stooped, balding, arthritic and grumpy individual. I now live alone, and that is great. I’ve had six different cleaning women in the past eight months—either their English wasn’t perfect or they were using too much Clorox, or both. The FedEx and UPS men have to go to my neighbor’s house to get a signature for a delivery because they won’t approach my door. My internist always sends in his physician assistant to examine me. My dentist uses moderate hypnosis when treating me. She once suggested that I mail in my bridges instead of going to the office. No telemarketers call me more than once. The newspaper-delivery person has his dog drop off the paper (I have no problem with pit bulls). I never have to buy Halloween candy.
Elizabeth Bernstein should more carefully examine her inaccurate theories. Don’t tell me I am getting nicer!
Fort Myers, Fla.