Old and Creaky

Nobody told me how everything goes to hell when you get old. Well, okay, the stereotypical old fart gripes about aches and pains and how the world is falling apart and things ain’t like they used to be. But…

Something happened when I turned seventy. My body went into rebellion mode: every joint aches, every bone creaks, every past injury rears its ugly head. My hearing is bad. My eyesight is worse. Every inch of me is wrinkled, gray, shriveled, dried out, or simply doesn’t work any more.

I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. I watch the weather forecast closely and when Charlie asks me five minutes later what the weather is for tomorrow, I have no clue. I fall asleep knitting. Or watching TV. Or reading a book.

I’m past the age of bearing children. I’m too old to work. I have trouble keeping up with my grandkids. Dinner is PBJ sandwiches if you’re lucky. Even the CDC considers me “elderly.”

But you know what else? I made it to “elderly” in one piece despite the battle to get here. I’ve gained a sense of peace. I’m good with who I am. I can thumb my nose at the world and say, “Who cares?” I like who I am, bruises scars, creaks, aches and all.

Now, can somebody remind me what day it is?

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