Two years ago, my mother moved in with me.

She was 87 at the time. Today, at 89, she’s sharper than ever, with more grace and grit in her pinky finger than many of us muster in a lifetime. While some might imagine this stage of life as slowing down, my mom has somehow mastered the art of aging with attitude — and a dust mop in hand.

Each morning around 7:30 AM, I hear the soft rustle of her footsteps. Her first task of the day? Baby-talking to and feeding our 23-year-old cat — her “first grandchild,” as she calls him. It’s their little ritual, filled with coos, giggles, and probably too many treats.

Then she makes herself breakfast, and heads to the sunroom — her favorite spot in the house. Coffee in hand, she sits quietly until she “comes to her senses,” as she puts it. Then the real workout begins.

Most mornings, she glides through our 2600 square feet of hardwood floors, dust mop in hand, like she’s auditioning for a Broadway cleaning musical. It’s her version of cardio. Some days, she’ll cook, other days she won’t — it depends entirely on whether she’s in the mood. But she always cleans up after herself and throws in a round of calisthenics before lunch.

Afternoons are for beauty and business.

Her self-care ritual is as sacred as church. Some days it’s a face mask and rollers, others it’s nails and lotion. And then — the wardrobe. Oh, the wardrobe. It’s an expansive, borderline-legendary collection of high fashion pieces acquired over decades. Sometimes she gifts me an item with flair, sometimes she donates, and when she’s feeling particularly tech-savvy, she sells on The RealReal.

I often tease her:
“Mom, if you’d invested all that fashion money, you’d be living in a luxury penthouse by now.”

She waves her hand dismissively and replies,
“Eh. I love my clothes. Besides, one day it’ll all be yours — your sister has no taste.”

At least five days a week, we walk three miles by the lake. She sets the pace. Strangers smile, sometimes do a double-take. “Is that your mom?” someone will whisper to me, incredulous. She just nods with her signature cat-eye sunglasses and moves along like a queen on her promenade.

Once a month, she gets glammed up and parties with her girlfriends — all of whom, somehow, are still outliving expectations and outdancing younger crowds.

She reads endlessly — everything from historical fiction to modern philosophy — and is slowly making her way through my entire library. She also video chats with her 91-year-old sister in San Diego every single day. Her sister, by the way, still works. As an accountant. For a private client. Twice a year, she flies out to visit.

And then, there’s the tablet. I gave it to her last Christmas, and it may be the greatest gift I’ve ever given anyone. She devours content about her favorite authors and composers, watches non-mainstream news, ballets, and obscure operas. And almost nightly, I hear her voice from down the hall around midnight:

“I should really go to sleep now, but someone put Pavarotti in my YouTube!”

This woman is 89 and still fully herself. Strong-willed. Stylish. Stunning. Funny. A little bit ferocious. And yes — she still dresses up to fly. The last time she boarded a plane, she wore a full matching outfit, silk scarf, and perfect makeup. I snapped a photo, and she said, “I look horrible!”

I shook my head and told her the truth:

“Mom, most people are dead at your age.”

She rolled her eyes. Then she laughed.

And kept walking forward — cat, mop, lipstick, Pavarotti, and all.

Credit to the rightful owner.
Read more about this beautiful story — and maybe call your mom today.