It seems strange to me, sometimes to realize that I am actually 66 years old. Some mornings I look in the mirror and say, "Who is that person and what has she done with the REAL Eva??
The real Me doesn't have those wrinkles around her eyes, The real me doesn't weigh a pound over 135. The real me can run up those steps, toes touching every other tread. The real me can swim 55 laps around the pool, and emerge, barely breathing hard and sporting not a single goose bump. The real me can dance up a storm all evening and still get up the next day, none the worse for wear!
At least that was the real me....WTF? When did it all go down hill? Age is an insidious culprit: he sneaks up on you during the night, settling in with a little more baggage daily, weekly, over a period of time. Until you become a lesser, yet larger, version of your former self. (I think age must be a "he;" a "she" would never be so unkind to another!")
If you're smart, you lie in wait with a weapon under your pillow to ambush him, instead of the reverse. You fight that usurper, tooth and nail, with every ounce of strengh in you. That's my theory, anyway. Hey, you young 'uns out there...test it out and see how it works, will ya'?
In the meantime, if you didn't fight the valiant fight--
You wake up, looking like your driver's license picture.
It takes two tries to get up from the couch.
Your idea of a night out is sitting on the patio.
Happy hour is a nap.
When you step off a curb and look down one more time to make sure that the street is still there.
Your idea of weight lifting is standing up.
It takes longer to rest than it did to get tired.
Your memory is shorter and your complaining is longer.
The pharmacist has become you new best friend.
It takes twice as long to look half as good!