Aging

Katie turns 11 on June 30 this year, and will be in the 6th grade. That means one thing in regards to my age: I am old. She is young, beautiful, and top notch, with her whole life ahead of her. I am more and more decrepit with every passing day.

Example 1: To borrow a phrase from my beloved high school biology teacher, I have "gastro-intestinal problems." To counter-act my diverticulosis, I must consume yogurt and granola each morning, and a half-glass of wine each afternoon. I'm not complaining. I like the taste of yogurt with granola, and a glass of wine after a hard day is certainly a welcome respite. But the indignities of age are creeping up on me, and I resent the fact that I must consume these things or suffer consequences. How much nicer it would be to be able to choose to have a glass of wine, or yogurt with granola!

Example 2: I have arthritis in my big toe. I am saddest about this particular diagnosis, because arthritis seems to be a clear indication of old age. My doctor has told me it was likely due to the repeated jumping and landing I do as a volleyball player and coach, and not necessarily a symbol of my aging. To me, however, it's quite simple: old people get arthritis. I have arthritis, ergo: I am old. Don't point out the logical fallacy here, because it will be duly noted and ignored.

Example 3: My dark brown hair is turning gray. I have plotted and schemed against this visual proof of aging to no avail. Hi-lights mask it for a month or two, covering the gray with dye works for a few weeks, but the gray continues to be fruitful and multiply. I was recently asked if I would ever just stop fighting it, but was unsure of how to answer. Certainly when I am a grandmother gray hair would be appropriate, but to be honest I cannot conceive of it ever being the color I desire. My first gray hair appeared at age 19, and I know there is no turning back, but I continue to battle it nonetheless.

4th and final example: I ache after physical activity. When I say, "ache" I am not referring to the sore muscles one experiences as a result of lactic acid settling in them. I mean that I feel the ache in my very core. It's as if my skeleton, or more precisely, my bone marrow is aching. It is a deep, penetrating, insistent ache, and all the advil, tylenol, and naprosin in my medicine cabinet cannot touch it. I hurt. My response to this physical revolt is more exercise, and a desire to subjugate my pain by pushing forward. Even so, I long for the good old days when exercise meant a certain amount of pleasure infused with the pain. Those days appear to be gone.

I'm thinking now of a quote from Monty Python's "The Holy Grail." The peasant, reacting to king Arthur, responds, "I'm 37! I'm not old!" This being my precise age, the quote has a particular, almost poignant meaning for me. I'm holding on to that sentiment, in denial of my body's revolt. As of February 2009, I'll need to find a new quote!