GLASGOW — “She looks good for her age.”

“He’s held up well.”

For some reason too many young squirts automatically think that with age comes decline. Broken down bodies. Sunken faces. Unkempt hair. Out-of-date clothing. Haggard, withered, wrinkled, gaunt, exhausted, worn-down, faded blooms from the bush of life. Is that what age does to people?

Does it cripple spirits, slump shoulders, darken eyes, and wrap us in hopelessness? Maybe, but it doesn’t have to be that way, does it? Can’t a woman or man look good instead of just “for her/his age”? Can’t senior citizens’ lives be just as exciting as those in middle age? I hope so.

Who made me think of such a topic? George Strait did.

As I was glued to the Artist of the Decade tribute to the other man in my life, Guy walked through the room, glanced at the TV and said, “Ole George is showing his age.” (He is fifty-six.) Did he have to say that? Why wasn’t he in the kitchen eating something?

I did not see what Guy obviously saw. Instead, I saw the shy grin, the blue eyes, the black hat, the charisma —one hunk of mature man.

“Ole George is showing his age WELL.” I shot back.

I am not just a fan of George Strait, I am an own the entire CD and cassette collection fan. I once wrote Oprah, when she had one of those make your dream come true shows, that my greatest desire (of unimportant magnitude) was to meet George Strait. She did not make my dream come true, so in the summer of 2005, I set out (with three of my friends) to take care of matters myself. It happened this way.

After I’d been at my son Jon’s home in Austin for three weeks after the birth of their second child, three of my friends flew down to ride home with me and to see a little of the Lone Star State. Our first stop was the San Marcos outlet mall. At the designated time to meet, one of the girls, overwhelmed with newfound information, announced to us sweating on the bench, “Guess what George Strait lives close to here!”

She described the location, according to a clerk in one of the stores whom she interrogated, and soon we were racing to the car and following the path she described. What was “close to here” turned out to be a “far piece.”

We were looking for a place called Old Dominion. We headed toward San Antonio down I-35 and took a turn that led us to a dead end so we stopped at a convenient store for more directions. We followed another loop and off on another path that wrapped around Six Flags over somewhere. One of the passengers wanted to stop. “We don’t have time,” the rest of us shouted. We were on a mission.

“I think we’re circling,” I stated from behind the wheel. We were deep in the heart of Texas with no sign of any area that looked like a place where George would hang his hat. We eased off the road at a local honky tonk/restaurant, dust flying as if we had ridden in on horses, and asked some good ole boys who were bellied up to the bar, “Do you know where Old Dominion is?” They did.

After four hours of circling, they had pointed us in the right direction. In just minutes from there, we found it! We didn’t know what we had found, but a sign led us to “Old Dominion.”

Following yet another path, this one was toward the pot of gold. It led straight to George Strait —sort of.

Looming before us was a gorgeous entrance to a highly gated community that would rival the entrance to Hurst Castle.

Without a word, we looked from one to the other, knowing this was a hopeless quest. We approached the keeper of the gate as if we belonged. “Do you have an invitation?” he asked.

“No, but” Then we all talked at once, explaining that all we wanted to do was see where George Strait lived and we would drive right back out and not bother anyone or anything. We had come all the way from Kentucky to see him (we lied a little) and we couldn’t go home without at least seeing where he lived — you can imagine the fellow’s eyes rolling. We weren’t the first carload of fans to reach the gate only to back up, turn around, and head back down the driveway.

Did we think we would find him? That he would have said, “Why don’t you Kentucky ladies come on in and have lunch with us?” Well, maybe. If he knew us, he might enjoy our company. If only.

There was a time when I never missed a George Strait concert. The last concert I attended two of us went with no tickets and ended up with the best seats we had ever had. I was so close I could have been a back-up singer.

As for the original topic of aging, I think George is aging well, but he isn’t the only one. Think about those around you or in your family who “look good for their ages.” There are many women in their 80s that I admire for their spirit and their attitude, and hope I look as good as they look when I am their age. What am I saying? I don’t even look that good now!