I will
be 57 years old in a few short months.
To say I have been feeling my age recently is an understatement. The “little aches and pains” my parents, grandparents,
and aunts and uncles always talked about
are now my claims to their realms. My
constant worrying about every little ache and pain and what they potentially
may be both embarrass and anger me. I find myself turning into a bit (okay more than
a bit) of a hypochondriac. Completing
the age-old cliché, most of the conversations I have with friends and family
ultimately include talk of getting old.
Last
week my sister and her husband visited us.
On their third day I slipped on wet concrete and performed one of those
incredible body gyrations you do when you will do anything to keep from
falling. Fortunately I caught myself
after performing a stunt that must have looked like a killer orca rising up out
of the water and twisting and turning for all it’s worth before lumbering back
into the water. As I said, I caught
myself, but I must have twisted something because the next day, and for five
days after, I was almost unable to walk.
Just pulling my left leg out of bed onto the floor was no easy
feat. And every time I breathed in a stabbing
pain hit me in the back. If I hadn’t
known better I would have sworn I had a samurai sword stuck in my liver. The pain slowly, and I mean SLOWLY dissipated
until by the seventh day I was able to return to my normal routines. But, wow, I have never experienced any kind
of back problem and it has made me think about…and accept…my age! (Did I say accept? I mean begrudging allow.)
I
remember my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles always talking about
their little aches and pains. It was SO
boring. I was determined not to sit
around and be the kind of middle age fogey that couldn’t wait to share the
latest bump on my head or how many times I got up last night to pee. But here I am, worrying about all the same stuff,
asking my mother if my father had this little rash, or insisting that my friend
Diana take a look at my poop. I guess it’s
just part of growing old... if you’re lucky.
I know I should feel fortunate that I’m still alive at 57, especially
after the history of the men in my family.
But it makes me mad that I am succumbing to the fear and loathing, and
hypochondria, the little aches and pains bring.
I should be celebrating each day I wake up in the morning! Instead I am certain that the looseness in my hip
means I need a hip-replacement or that the pain in my lower abdomen is cancer
or a headache means I have a huge brain tumor, and you know that no one
survives a brain tumor. I am constantly
certain I will go to sleep and never wake up.
(Yeah, but what a great way to go, please God.)
I
suppose what all this is really about is death.
I am going to die. We all are
going to die. And it is the ultimate
end, or transition, or whatever you believe it is. But whatever we believe, it’s pretty clear we
all want to stick around as long as possible.
And in my quest to stick around I look for every little clue I can find
that might tell me it’s not yet my time.
I am on the site DeadOrAliveInfo.com constantly. It somehow reassures me that someone who did something
that made them famous enough to be listed on a website went before me. I also like it when I see that someone made
it well into their 90’s…gives me hope.
Esther Williams was 91. Aw, I
liked her. Sorry she died BEFORE
ME! James Gandolfini was 51? 5 years younger than me? Man, have I got it going on, or what? But then there are those who are way up there
and still hanging on. Betty White, you bum me out, and yet curiously thrill me at the same time.
So now
I sit around and figure how much I will need to retire, not because of all the
great traveling I will do or great places I will see, but because with the way
my body is failing there is no way I can work until 66 (and 4 months, thank you
very much Social Security Administration!).
How much will I need to retire?
How long will I live? Is there
really any point to all this, acknowledging that growth on my ankle?
Well, I’ll
tell you how long I’m going to live: 144. That’s right, I decided when I was 21 that I
was going to live to be 144 years old. I
am going to die on New Year’s Day, 2100.
And since I have no idea at what age I’ll ACTUALLY buy the big one, I may
as well shoot for the moon. Unless, of
course, my recent forgetfulness is, just as I feared, the first signs of
dementia, in which case, please just tell me I made it to 144.