The real sting here lies in Renard's reversal of blame—he's not saying age is merely a number, that tired consolation. Instead, he's claiming you bear responsibility for *becoming* the kind of old person you are, that your trajectory matters more than your years. Notice how differently an eighty-year-old who remains curious approaches a Tuesday morning than one who has calcified into certainty; the calendar alone didn't make that difference. We see this most clearly in how some people respond to loss or diminishment—one person at sixty-five closes doors, another opens them wider, and Renard insists this choice is precisely what "being old" means.