Pink Eye and Other Pleasures of the Ages

The ramp up to age 76 has been kicking my ass.

I’ve had a cold followed by days of a hacking, doubled over kind of cough, and then, yes, pink eye. And during this fun, we had our two-year-old granddaughter staying with us while her mother was in the hospital. Gratefully, mom is out of the hospital now.

Because I am so rarely sick, I have very weak chops. I lack fortitude and stoicism. Oh, I carried on – I still changed diapers and put ridiculously tight shoes on tiny feet, brushed long hair tangled by sleep, and did all the things. But at night I put my hands over my face and thought, Good Lord, what if I really got sick?

This has ratcheted down my bravado about getting older.

Late this afternoon, we went to a Mexican grocery to get tamales. We decided I should stay in the truck lest I have a coughing fit in the check-out line. “You’ll scare all the people,” my husband said. This seemed harsh but rang true. I looked over at the car parked next to us where an old guy was sitting, looking directly ahead like he was still driving. He turned his head to acknowledge me. I nodded. We were birds of a feather – car waiters. This is my future.

I will dig out of this little hole. What choice do I have if I plan on posing nude when I turn 85?