Just some rambling thoughts on getting older.
I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve become a “Sir”. Thank you for coming, sir. Have a nice day, sir. Can I get you more coffee, sir?
When we moved to Ohio I was 35 and in the prime of my bipolar-addled life. Despite the instability, I felt like I was still a youthful person who could hike for miles, climb volcanoes, cut down and chop up trees, shovel the driveway, or stay up late without consequences. My kids were young, and I enjoyed playing with them. My life didn’t revolve around doctor’s appointments.
Now I look back just a little, and it seems such a short while ago. It’s been 13 years. I feel old now. I’m very close to 50, an age I never contemplated reaching. I grew up with old people, but they were old-old, as in ancient. Old people had medical problems, aches and pains, and emitted strange noises at regular intervals.
I feel old now, but I’m not really. If I were to leave this world, people would say it was too soon. I still have to work for 20 years before I can consider retirement, and I’m afraid I won’t make it. Thoughts of ailing health and mortality take up too much of my available thinking time.