68

I'm looking down the barrel at 68.  That's not nothing, I'll tell you that.  And I'm laughing all the time at the conflict between my mind - which hints I'm like 40 - and my body - which hints that I'm looking down the barrel at 68.  My favorite concept in the world - Balance! - reminds me that both ends of a dichotomy can exhibit some truth.  I try to live my life like a 40 year old while treating my body - at times, anyway - like it's 68 years old.  Today a good workout is getting into and out of my  low-slung sports car without groaning so loud nearby windows shake.  Part of the mindset is to deny the inevitable facts of aging the self-indulgent pleasures of woe and complaining; instead, let's get out there and keep moving.  Gotta keep moving . . .  I ask people why my hour long walks now take an hour and fifteen minutes?  When did a mile stretch out into two?  Who the hell keeps tilting the hills around here up another few degrees?  When did my knees start informing me that they'd rather I go uphill than down?  When did that become a thing?

I remember when I was so healthy I never went to the doctor or the dentist and suffered few repurcussions.  And when I began getting regular check-ups those people rarely found anything wrong.  Now I'm happy when they only find a couple of things wrong.  That's a win.  That and not finding anything awful wrong, nothing fatal.  I think I'm still trying to cheat death . . . 

In my meeting there are plenty of people my age and a handful more who are older yet.  Some of them are healthy and some of them are balky and some of them suffer all kinds of painful and debilitating ailments, and I get to watch as this decline happens.  As we get older we injure more easily, too - that spill I took on a concrete walkway a few months ago took a while to shake off.  The skin doctor I saw a couple of weeks ago prescribed a chemo ointment to apply to a possibly pre-cancerous sore on my lower lip.  As the treatment has progressed the outcome has been the bloody death of a lot of cells on my lower lip.  I look like I got decked by a Boston brawler when I get up in the morning: bloody spots and crusty scabs.  Very elegant.  Very attractive.  Very comely.

What inspires me is the quiet dignity that these folks -  and me, too! - exhibit during this slow decline.  We talk about our aches and pains but not all the time and with humor and perspective.  There's a difference between sharing our little woes and whining, complaining, bitching.  No one likes an older person providing a great deal of detail re: oozing sores and bloody scabs, etc. etc. etc.  I just simply do not hear much complaining and I do not hear people going over their aches and pains at length.  Mostly, we fucking joke about it.  As in: "It makes my day watching you contort your body getting out of that car"  which prompts the reply: "Hey, this counts as my workout today.'