SIGNS THAT YOU ARE GETTING OLDER

Ok, there are many ways of determining this, not all of them social-media friendly. But I am going to try and list a bunch of these signs that I have noticed recently, as I hurtle towards my 73rd birthday. (Say it ain't so!)

--You look in the side mirror of your car (Rick did this two days ago) and wonder, "Huh! Why is that creep following so close?" only to realize it is the end of your own car.
--You think that the fashion world should bring back mumuus because you hate wearing bras, and frankly, fastening them is beginning to be a bit of a chore.

--You look at yourself in the mirror and leap back, wondering how you got so many lines around your mouth, eyes, cheeks, and elsewhere. These are not "laugh lines." They are stress, past trauma, and Donald Trump lines.

--Halfway through the day, you lovingly get out your PJs for the evening, patting them and putting them on your pillow for later, 'cause this broad gets into bed at 8:30.

--You make plans with friends for mid-day, because none of you likes to drive at night anymore, unless it is an emergency or dinner at Alina's.
--You decide to get fit, order 10-lb. weights from Amazon, and promptly injure the muscles going over your rotator cuff. Now you have to shell out money for massage and PT, wish you had some Vicodin on hand, but settle for a cocktail of Ibuprophen & Tylenol. (See previous blog entry for the gory details.)
--You decide that yoga pants should now become PJs, except they aren't loose enough. I don't want to feel any fabric sliding around my body at night. And sleeping naked is not an option, 'cause we don't want to frighten the animals when we get up to pee for the 3rd time at night.

--You search the paper for condo ads or anything that is on one floor, as you think your knees might appreciate it.
--You find your old copy of "Vermont Country Store" and plan on ordering some "Frownies" from them in hopes that they might help.

And while leafing through the catalogue, you speed by the underwear that looks like correctional clothing, see if they have anything to help your thinning lips (extract of goat's placenta?), and get caught on section for screwed up feet. (Huh. I used to party naked. What happened? Time, Annie, sweet baby Jesus on a cracker.) --You have to nap after lunch because really, you can't get through the day without napping.
--You no longer get catalogues for sexy underwear but instead, receive catalogues for people with urinary incontinence (please, God, not yet!), fascia pain, bad feet, etc. etc. It is wearing on the psyche to look at these pictures of one's future.
--You used to be able to eat an appetizer with wine, a full-course meal with wine, and maybe even some tiramisu at the end and walk out to the car without staggering. No longer. Fish, salad, and 1 glass of wine is the best I can do now.
--Perhaps, you think, you should order a simple wooden coffin and practice your mortality, the way Medieval monks did. Then you call the cemetery to find out how much a plot costs (shameful), and maybe you should just get cremated which is cheaper but puts bad stuff in the air.

 It's a dilemma. A priest friend once said, "You need to have a place to visit where you are buried, Annie, so loved ones can come and visit." Somehow, I don't see my loved ones coming to a cemetery to visit or lay flowers. Could be wrong, though. And "green burials" are not an option in our area; I checked.

That's it for now. The rotator cuff is acting up, I need to cook those salmon burgers from the market, sip some wine, and stay away from the news feed. Salut! And blessings on all who share this journey with me. We may stagger a bit, our knees creak, but we still love our lives and our honeys around us.