Being old is a new thing. At least, being this old at this young an age. There are plenty of people living the dream of 60 being the new 40.
Lucky them.
Me, at not quite 62. I feel more like 82. Some days maybe even 102. I envy those 'young' people. I always thought I'd be one of them.
I thought walking would keep me young(er) forever.
And then it kept getting more and more difficult.
Now, as well, as not walking, I'm grossly overweight.
I hurt. My back spasms. My hips are randomly stiff. My butt muscles tighten and ache. My knees buckle. My ankles roll. My feet swell.
I feel cold.
I'm beginning to have trouble hearing as well as visual problems. Even though my basic vision, thanks to last year's cataract surgeries, is better than it has been for years.
The cold is as much a surprise as the not walking. Cold hasn't especially bothered me much in my life. Put on more clothes, wear socks; that takes care of that.
Except that it no longer does.
The cold is inside me, working its way out.
In my bones.
A part of my bones, liquid and silvery.
And shivery.
Some days I feel frail, fragile, and feeble. It's an odd feeling in a body the size of a cow. Anyone this large should feel somewhat strong, even if it's "only" the strength of a steamroller.
I hate it.
I hate this.
I don't want to be prematurely old.
I also don't want to be an old person acting stupid-young. Although who really gets to define that? After a certain age and a certain amount of living, we should all be able to be ourselves: silly, shivering, happy, sad, glad, mad -- our best or truest self isn't anyone else's business.
It's a New Year, but it isn't a New Me.
It's an Old me.
And getting older.
Lucky them.
Me, at not quite 62. I feel more like 82. Some days maybe even 102. I envy those 'young' people. I always thought I'd be one of them.
I thought walking would keep me young(er) forever.
And then it kept getting more and more difficult.
Now, as well, as not walking, I'm grossly overweight.
I hurt. My back spasms. My hips are randomly stiff. My butt muscles tighten and ache. My knees buckle. My ankles roll. My feet swell.
I feel cold.
I'm beginning to have trouble hearing as well as visual problems. Even though my basic vision, thanks to last year's cataract surgeries, is better than it has been for years.
The cold is as much a surprise as the not walking. Cold hasn't especially bothered me much in my life. Put on more clothes, wear socks; that takes care of that.
Except that it no longer does.
The cold is inside me, working its way out.
In my bones.
A part of my bones, liquid and silvery.
And shivery.
Some days I feel frail, fragile, and feeble. It's an odd feeling in a body the size of a cow. Anyone this large should feel somewhat strong, even if it's "only" the strength of a steamroller.
I hate it.
I hate this.
I don't want to be prematurely old.
I also don't want to be an old person acting stupid-young. Although who really gets to define that? After a certain age and a certain amount of living, we should all be able to be ourselves: silly, shivering, happy, sad, glad, mad -- our best or truest self isn't anyone else's business.
It's a New Year, but it isn't a New Me.
It's an Old me.
And getting older.
