My husband likes to remind me that my life is most likely half over. I suppose this is meant to spur me to a greater appreciation of life and deepen my desire to absorb every moment, but really, it just makes me feel old.
I’m at that age when I see a college student and think he must be in junior high. I cannot believe that professionals–doctors, even–are young enough to be my children (if I’d been a teenage mother). My college friends have kids in college and the very thought of that blows my mind.
When I study my face closely in the mirror, I can’t help but notice the soft wrinkles gathered around my eyes. I’m losing elasticity while sprouting gray hair at my temples. I fear that my back will refuse to bend without warning. I am all age spots and spider veins.
I feel old and tired. Even though I’m just middle-aged and sleep-deprived.
I think these thoughts at every change of the seasons. Today, a chilly wind accompanied us to school. Summer has evaporated leaving only cold sunshine and a promise of rain tomorrow.
The ending of each season propels me closer to The End. And I really, really, really hope the story of my life will be told with gusto and humor and compassion before that final page.
But today I am boring and tired and uninteresting, unworthy. My daughter, however, is beginning to read, has mastered Yahtzee and has the most perfect blond ringlets. She brings laughter and recognition to my days.
She is sunshine and rainbows. I am fog. I am tired fog, in need of immediate sleep.