Do you remember the first time you had to use the armrests to hoist yourself out of a chair? Or the first time you felt breathless climbing stairs? Probably not, because it sneaks up on us, that moment of fragility when we become conscious of our body-mind connection, as in, “Get UP! Uff. Okay, now, UP!”

It was the new James Bond movie which set me to thinking about all of this. Strangely enough, aging is the theme of Skyfall, starring Judi Dench, my favorite actress in the world, as M, and Daniel Craig (who in reality is only 44 years old) as an aging James Bond. The theme of the film is, can the long of tooth stay sharp of wit, and can they handle the stresses of clambering after errant Glocks across the roofs of speeding trains without delivering the security of England into enemy hands? In other words, the young M16 agents ask, are James Bond and the venerable M too old for the job?

The film is action-packed, of course, or it wouldn’t be a Bond movie. Even Ms. Dench gets involved in a gun battle, ducking behind pillars as bullets richochet millimeters from her forehead. Whether we want this kind of life is irrelevant—the question is, are we creating our own age barriers right here at home? Are we up for the day, or are we tired and creaky and cranky because we never bust a move?

Watching this film, I had to ask myself when was it exactly that my body decided to use more energy than it produces? Could I have prevented or delayed the aches and pains that come with gardening, for instance, or working all day at the computer? Are those aches and pains telling me to stop what I’m doing, or to do more of it?

I think the trick is to keep moving. Outrun our age. “Ha ha, I see you back there, Future Me, but you’ll never catch up!”

I’m no physical therapist, but I’ve met enough PTs to know what their job is like. They and their patients appreciate each pain-free movement achieved after hours and hours of, “Please, can we stop now?”

I’m not a nutritionist either, or an MD, but I believe in the line quoted often in Skyfall: “Sometimes the old way is best.” In other words, “eat right, exercise, and get enough sleep”—the formula touted by physicians since the building of the pyramids —is the best way to preserve our youthfulness and to prolong our lives.

Getting enough sleep is not a problem for me. I love to sleep. LOVE! The mattress. The pillow. The blankets. Groggy pats on the behind, heat-seeking feet, and bad-breath kisses in the morning, I revel in it.

Nutrition, too, is not hard for anyone who knows where protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals come from. I saw Food, Inc.: I avoid McDonalds and Monsanto. There is always lettuce in my fridge, and there is nothing like a lowfat ginger vinaigrette over lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and red onions. Heaven! Plain yogurt dolloped over chopped Red Delicious apples and sprinkled with granola and honey: divine!

Then there’s exercise. Stop right there—I’m overdue for my nap! I know I ought to join a gym or take Pilates classes or get up early and join my girlfriends at Zumba. But I don’t like doing those things. I’d rather walk briskly—but I feel guilty going out for a walk without a leash with a dog at the end of it, and I can’t resist her big black eyes, so along she comes, and we never achieve aerobic pace because there’s always something interesting to sniff in the ditch, and if I try to keep walking and drag her, my arm goes out of joint.

Fortunately, there’s dancing once or twice a week. And descending the stairs with a laundry hamper in each hand (at least equivalent to five-pound weights!) and climbing up again with stacks of folded jeans in my arms must count for something.

At a party recently, I chatted with a group of women about the things we do to keep ourselves young, and inevitably the topic of sex came up. One woman said,, in reference to post-menopause, “When it comes to tissue, it’s use it or lose it!” A cheer went up, and margarita glasses were raised. The men came over to see what we were talking about. “Sports,” we said.

I have no ambitions toward a secret service agent’s life or even that of a Zumba devotee, but I don’t like feeling achy. Time to call up my 65-year-old marathon runner friend and sneak out for a buddy walk before the dog knows I’m gone.

Anne Nicolai is an American writer and editor living in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.