The Sun Has Set On My Youth

I am at a crossroads in my life. Just before Halloween, I took my kids to a neighborhood fair and the old man running the pony rides pointed to my son and asked if I was, “mom or grandma.” I asked him to repeat himself then he fumbled over his words and asked if *that* was my daughter. Again, he was pointing at my son, who is undoubtably a boy. I live for moments like this.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just let myself corrode like an old pear on the kitchen counter. Or should I try a little harder to maintain this old flesh bag. This is probably hard to believe, but I’ve never been known for my great beauty. However, I have made efforts to fix my skeletal structure. I started correcting my posture because I don’t want to look like a vulture. That’s a personal preference. When you attempt to correct your posture, you’re basically signing up for at least a month of new pain. What I do is jam a tennis ball into my baby hunchback and roll it around. I was surprised that my once tender hump is now bony to the touch. Progress is sweet. My neck makes crunching sounds now.

I’ve put on weight since 2020. This is my number one source of physical shame. The stench I give off is second. The excuse I have for putting it on is repressed rage. I wanted to smack so many people during the oh-so-scary pandemic. Any time someone complained about toilet paper *smack.* Mankind has gone thousands of years without Charmin. You’re fine. Anyone who threw fits about masks *smack.* Even people who were on my side, but were bad spokespeople *smack.* Stop making us look bad. Anyway, instead of smacking people, I smacked hamburgers and that is a sin. You’re not supposed to smack or pig out. Lesson learned. People always say things like, “Go easy on yourself. It took you such-and-such time to put it on, it’ll take such-and-such time to take it off.” Pigging out and starving yourself are way different experiences. One is super fun and the other is not fun at all. Also, I have always been able to lose weight relatively easily and this time, not so much. Old.

So I’m debating if I want to do what the kids call a glow-up or just be a grandma. There are pros and cons for both paths. I have an appointment in two weeks to go to the doctor for my knee. There’s no way I can live another 40 years with this old rickety, swollen joint. That’s one downside to grandma-life: pain. I hate going to the doctor. Glow-ups require medical attention if you’re not ready to embrace soreness. That’s one un-womanly thing about me. Seems like most women enjoy going to the doctor and want to go for everything even if their kid is merely coughing. I associate going to the doctor with shame. Excuse the language, but they always want to get their hands on your dishonorable parts. I’d rather just die. However, my knee is getting worse and there are some physical things I’m struggling to do, like defend myself against my husband. He tries to use his ancient karate on me and my only defense has been to use my legs as extra arms. Can’t now. If I don’t get my knee looked at, I’ll just end up getting fatter and weaker. But at least fat-hugs are cozier hugs. If I gave you a squishy hug and called you “sweetheart” and smelled like nummies, you wouldn’t complain. 

I was thinking about having knee surgery and then thought about how people post hospital photos of their loved ones, literally dying. Sometimes they post a photo of their hand holding the sick person’s hand. If I’m on my deathbed and my grandkids whip out their phones and want to “low key” get a photo of them holding my wrinkly hand, I’m going to sinfully give the finger. Just let me die. I don’t want to end up on the Dark Web.

Okay, I think I’ll just meet halfway and be a “spry” old person. Physically capable, but withered.