“Okay, seriously, the last thing I remember is dancing around in fields without a care in the world and now I’m swallowing Rolaids and working on a Master’s. What the hell happened.”
It was a rhetorical question to J a few minutes ago. Somehow, I’ve developed heartburn as of late. And just the mention of heartburn rings right up there with arthritis in my ears. I’m not silly enough to feel that thirty is the death of me, but I have been making jokes since my last birthday (which is a long cry away from 30 by the way, in fact, when rounding, it’s closer to 20) that I feel like I have one foot in the grave.
Ever since my mid-teens I made joking statements about how I would truly be rock and roll and die before I would be old. But now that my body has started failing me in minute ways that an antique dealer, in evaluation of me as he would a hope chest, would only term as character-adding additions to my worth, it all just makes me feel old.
And old in not a way that has anything to do with wisdom or grace, or even an ability to hose down unruly children in my yard, but more along the lines of a tire worn of tread. These days come and go, but still I feel too young to be having them.