There are some days, not all days, but some of them where the revelation that I am growing old, bit by bit and inch by inch hits like a ton of bricks. It may be because despite how perfectly I have applied my mascara, my eyes still look withered or no matter how much time I spend grooming my hair its 58-year old texture just refuses to behave and looks ghastly or it might be because I had a mighty fine work-out only to discover when I get in the shower there is a dull ache in my arm. Instead of knowing it will go away, the thought creeps in, “Is this the start of something big? Is my cartillage leaking out?”
Nothing is the way it used to be and the idea that this spiral of slow decline is the new norm is just one big icky thing that does not make me happy. That’s when I call Lois, the eternal optimist whose favorite slogan is “It’s going to get better!”, but she is a peer and she too is in the process of figuring out this new story line. So we commiserate and crack up at the absurdity of how the body betrays its host and figure this means its time to plan a dance party.