I picked a long white hair off of my jeans the other day. Long, as in at least 12 inches long. Even though I know I’ve had white hairs since I was 21, and even though I know that I have hair that is at least a foot long, I still find it disturbing to find a foot-long white hair and realize it’s mine. I’d be happy to believe it was my mother’s because she loves her silver hair, but it’s way too long for me to deceive myself into believing that. I am now a person who grows long white hairs out of my head. This is really happening.
If I were to assess my body like someone listing a house for sale, I’ve added more and more I’d have to disclose in just the past few years. Flat feet, bunions, tendinitis, Morton’s neuroma, and that’s just the problems with my feet! There’s also the loose joints that make my knees hurt when I go up stairs, the cherry angiomas I’ve started to spot on my abdomen, rosacea, frequent unwelcome facial blushing, the crooked teeth the braces fixed, the incredibly bad eyesight LASIK fixed, and so many fillings I literally don’t know how many I have. Not to mention the tendency towards obesity and the headache that never goes away. In short, I’m glad I was born in this century because there’s no way I would have made it past infanthood without advanced medical science.
I know 34 is not really considered old, and in 20 years I’ll probably look back and think, “Bitch, you were so young and healthy and you took it for granted!” But still, I am feeling more worn down than I would have anticipated I would feel at this age. If my body were a car, I’d be thinking about trading it in for a newer model right now. Instead, all I can do is take care of this clunker as best as I can, and hope it keeps running for several more decades.