Lucky 57
57.
Turns out that’s the number. My number. The number of the age — my age since May — that I not only fully accept but fully embrace the reality that this body I presently inhabit, my now 9th one, could at this point barely keep up with — or could look like — even my 7th one.
Sure, I still have a young spirit in a great many ways (and still boast a smidgeon of) base immaturity), but the meat and mechanisms are worn. Often audibly so.
The cerebral synapses are ”snapless,” like the waistbands of old boxer shorts. Even with “progressive” glasses I can feel my eyeballs refocusing between near and far objects. And I’ve forgotten your name just now though we’ve been in touch for over 40 years.
I don’t always need naps, but when I do it can be for up to two hours! Some to many of the women I find most attractive happen to also be grandmothers. I read the labels of almost everything I consider buying.
I sit to pee.
Yes, there are 57-(67-/77-)year olds who race cars and jump out of planes and run marathons and stay out late socially; I like peace and quiet. And I like solitude. And nostalgia. And music from half a century ago. (The only songs I remember all the words to.)
And I like 57. Like they say, “some are not so lucky.” So I embrace eating more leafy greens and needing a shower seat and having just the physical process of getting out of bed in the morning being, some days, the only “exercise” i get. That and getting on my knees to retrieve the medication that I dropped which then rolled under the bed … three days ago!
Yes, I’m lucky 57. “Ah, to be young again!”…? Nah. To be happy where I am? That’s my soul’s best gift. The body’s enjoying just being along for the ride.