Aging Gratefully

Sunday night reveals
My age within my habits.
Why don’t I still dance?

Picture this…

I’m sitting on my bed assembling my now-clean CPAP supplies into my nightly gear. 

I’m listening to a new audio book about a vampire accountant who is supposed to be very boring. 

I have a silvery goo spread all over my face, a promise of firmness yet to be realized. 

I have a deep conditioner in my hair, repairing the damage done in hiding my gray hair.

And I’m wearing toe socks designed to separate my toes as they are migrating in unhealthy ways. 

Jesus H. Christ when did I become a parody of aging? Seriously, I’m a sitcom just waiting to be filmed. I look around and see reading glasses, ortho-crocs (yes, they make these and they are divine so piss-off); my medicine cabinet is an impressive collection of OTC promises and Rx commitments to mobility and health. 

Oh and today is my 27th anniversary with my company. 

Yes. I’ve been working for the same company longer than 35% of the US population has been alive. 


But here’s the deal: I’m happy. I like scaring the dog with my Jason horror beauty mask. My decision to delay kids means they will keep me conversant in today’s music and video games and make me feel younger for years to come. My beloved of over two decades is my best friend and the one I have the most shared history, love and laughter with. I enjoy mt work and more importantly the people there. I have a damned good life all things considered. 

Yes, it is also a life filled with deepening wrinkles, bunions and hair breakage, not to mention too much weight and the not-too-distant burden of paying for college while my friends are into retirement. 

Oh and there’s death. Can’t forget that lurking around my deepest darkest… 

But I really like my Sunday routine… and I never really was a dancer. Time to finally embrace that.  And time to wash off this goop and get to bed. 

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