Sixty Three

63

I woke up yesterday morning. My back hurt a little bit, and my sinuses were a murky mess. I pulled on my pants and shoes. After feeding the cats, I took the dogs for their walk. Halfway through the walk my knees started barking as loud as Sasha, and my feet felt like they were being poked by sharp sticks. As each dog squatted and left their pile of steaming poo, I fumbled with the little poop bags that I carry, my fingers no longer as deft and nimble as they once were. By the time we arrived back home my stomach was telling me I should eat, while my colon was telling me no, you have something else to do first. My colon won the argument which only reminded me of another consequence of aging, hemorrhoids. The day ground on as I struggled to remember the names of things, and why I had walked into any particular room. At eleven in the morning I was ready to nap. Growing old truly, truly sucks. After my nap I awoke to find Mark in the dining room snacking on McDonald's hamburgers and fries. He graciously offered me one which only exacerbated my propensity to pass gas. Of course passing gas is not something new to me. I've done it since I was young. The only difference is that now that I'm old, my sphincter has the elasticity of a two day old, helium party balloon. It isn't a pretty sound. After my McDonald's lunch, and a short spurt of energy that I directed towards cleaning the kitchen, I was ready for another nap.

It was a long day yesterday, my birthday, and despite all those naps I still found that I was tired and ready for bed. My eyes had gone blurry, my legs felt like I had walked ten miles, and my finger joints felt like somebody had hit them with a hammer. There was only one thing left to do, vodka cocktail and an Excedrin. All in all it was a pretty normal day for me. I was one year older, and I was feeling every year. As I lay there in bed waiting for Mark to finish watching his "Real Housewives" show, I mulled over my day. Not so bad, I thought, I woke up this morning.