Last week I fell down a rabbit-hole. I confess, birthdays around here tend to come with a steamin’ pile of nostalgia and a side of ennui. I have a reflective instinct…a need to take stock of what I’ve done with all those years. Then I move into what I have left to do. Then I drink wine and eat cheesecake.
This year I added something new to the repertoire…
This year I was forced to face the reality that I may no longer be considered ‘spritely’. Years of fighting entropy and decay may be catching up with me. This year I had my first mammogram AND was told I need bifocals. What the…?! Huh?
OK, to be fair, breast cancer runs in my family. I’ve lost close relatives. (It’s cancer awareness month, people – male or female, take a few minutes to check for weird bumps or lumps or moles or what-have-you, early detection saves lives.) So I get that early screening makes sense. But bifocals? You can call them ‘progressive lenses’ all you want, Dr. Flirtsalot, but we both know what you’re really saying.
The hard reality is, I’m not twenty. The utter joy is, I’m not twenty. I wouldn’t trade a single wrinkle or sag to be back where I was half a lifetime ago… just thinking about all that drama and heartfelt earnestness wears me out. I’ll accept that I need to wear glasses to play Resident Evil as long as I can continue to indulge in steampunk, slam poetry and the zombie apocalypse for another 40 years.