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I am Not Ready For My Birthday

My Birthday is in a few weeks.

I hadn’t really cared when the clock struck 12 on January 1.


I went skiing for three days, slept funny and ended up at the chiropractor.

My son and I worked out with a trainer and I couldn’t do half the moves because of my back.

My eye doctor recommended “progressives” – the latest version of BIFOCALS so that my eyes can adjust now while I only need slight help rather than later when I will need TONS.

I went to get my physical and was told that I will be at the age when I should get yearly mammograms.

(Now please do not comment on whether or not one should get a mammogram or if the radiation is what will kill me. None of this matters to me at the moment. So let’s stay on topic. And today’s topic is I. And I am being annoying by using correct grammar.)

So I’m lying on my couch with an icepack on my back wondering where my life went wrong when I realized I’m getting older.

I’m getting older and I’m falling apart.


The first week of January was amazing. Sure, I was feeling a bit sluggish from eating my way through the holidays, but that is how you’re supposed to feel the first week of January. Besides that, I was fine.

Fit as a fiddle.

Happy to be alive.

But lying there, I wondered what the point of it all was if we were just going to end up old and lying on a couch with either an ice pack or a heating pad on our back and sometimes switching between both?

Where is the humanity?

One thing I do know:

I’m not heeding warnings about not eating raw cookie dough anymore.

Life is too short.



*Disclaimer: I am not a nutrionist, but eating raw cookie dough is probably a bad idea according to the people who make the warnings that go on everything. Especially in excess. I’m not really sure, though. I’ll let you know.

This is what I’m supposed to look like. Lying down because I want to…

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