Fifty. That’s right, I said it, fifty. That, my dear friends, is how old I, Lori A. Clinch, am going to be today. One half of a century and the big 5-0.
Can you even stand it?
I realized how I had aged when I crawled out of bed. While I have never been a morning person, per se, there was a time when I could put my feet on the ground and amble to the coffee pot with ease.
But today, during my early morning arising, I experienced throbbing. It’s not as if I once had a spring in my step at 6 a.m. (probably because I used to be able to sleep until 8 a.m.), but this pain caused me to double over, moan a bit and then to gimp to the bathroom with the grace and ease of a tower dweller.
Then there is the kink in my neck. Wasn’t much to speak of at first, unless I needed to turn my head. Today my hips ache, the knuckle on my left hand throbs, and to the tune of “The Old Gray Mare, She Ain’t What She Used to Be,” I have been experiencing some annoying back pain.
“It’s old age,” someone who used to be a friend advised over lunch. “Old age, my hide,” I replied as I denied and popped an antacid for heartburn along with some Ginko biloba for memory loss and garlic tablets for heaven knows what. Toss in an Anacin and we’ll be going on a wild ride to heaven knows where.
That up-close vision was real nice when I had it. In fact, I never noticed the decline until the day I went to examine a label. One minute I was reading fine print, deciphering minute letters and enjoying my latest decorating magazine from whatever distance I liked.
Suddenly, and without warning, I was standing in the kitchen ascertaining how many calories were in a whole wheat tortilla, and instead of counting carbs I was looking at a blurry mess.
“It’s finally happened to you,” my optometrist said with a lighthearted chuckle. For years he would bring a chart of lines closer to my face with instructions to tell him when it became blurry.
Unexpectedly and without the customary notice, my up-close vision has gone to pot and I, Lori A. Clinch, am now the proud owner of no less than six pairs of cheaters strategically placed so that I don’t have to remember where I put them.
I ain’t as tall as I used to be, gravity has not been kind and my recollections are a distant memory.
Bending down is one thing, but coming back up is quite another. Just yesterday I stooped down to tie my shoes and wondered what else I could do while I was down there. No sense in wasting a trip.
“Hey,” I said to my family physician during my last physical, “what have you got for swollen ankles?”
“Those come with age,” he cheerfully informed me.
“Well, I can’t have it,” I retorted. “Anytime there is heat and a stint in a chair, I find myself carrying around two grapefruits on my lower appendages that, quite frankly, don’t do my rhinestone flip-flops any justice.”
“The best thing you can do is get yourself some support hose,” he said like it was no big deal.
“I can’t wear support hose!”
“It’s either that or swollen ankles, you decide,” he said with a grin as he surely imagined my wearing them with embossed footwear.
What a knee-slapper.
It’s happening – today I am turning 50. Some people age gracefully and others fight it every step of the way. I have pondered, reflected and I have decided that I will celebrate this half-century celebration that I am embarking upon. I will own it, rock the look and make the young gals look forward to being my age.
I will embrace my celebration, for I have lived these many years and I deserve it.
I got this!
Growing old is better than the alternative and I am going to take it in stride. I am going to live it up, do it right and party like it’s something 99.
But I truly wish someone would remind me where in the heck I put those stinking readers so I could read the label on these support hose.