I just had cortisone injections in both knees in an effort to stave off raging arthritis.
Getting old is a bitch.
Do spare me the clichés: “It ain’t for sissies.” “Except for the alternative.” “You’re only as old as you feel.” (True—but some days I feel every decade, every year.)
Whoever—in his or her teens, twenties, or even thirties—contemplates being “elderly”? I surely did not. And now I am. When did that happen, for heaven’s sake?
I fought it as most of us do—by pretending it was not happening. I started dyeing my hair when I was still in my twenties. Two years ago I quit doing so. And I am still often startled when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Who is that white-haired old broad?
Years ago Cynthia Ozick wrote of aging: “It’s a kind of second adolescence, though much harder. . . .
Before you were always full of the future: some day you are going to do this. And now some day is here or it’s never going to be here. It’s frightening, as if a needle got stuck in the record of life.” (The analogy is dated, but it fits!)
But I have promises to keep (if only to myself) and miles to go before I sleep! And miles to go before I sleep. . . . (Apologies to the ghost of Robert Frost.)
Seize the day.