Getting old

They don't tell you that getting old is thousands of tiny cuts: a body that, when bent over, doesn't come back to true. A muscle that complains of overuse--like, you know, by going up the stairs once. Sinuses that announce infection by headache and no drainage at all--because they're progressively drying out and periodically need irrigated to continue comfortably, even when no infection is present. A large intestine that wants to go on vacation, but insists on being fed regularly. Zits.

Come to think of it, is zits still a word? It's been my go-to word for acne for years, since I was a young teen. My children know the word from me, but I don't know if other teens use it now. Homeschoolers have, I think, more influence over their children's vocabulary than parents who spend less time with their children, but my children are not in a box or anything. They pick up new slang, like shipping, which has nothing to do with trade.

So: getting old is not cool. It's both gnarly and grody, and I am So Done. Not really done. I mean, I have pneumonia, but it's being treated, and the sun is shining, and a plumber is coming to fix my basement drain, and it's warm enough that the furnace is not coming on, so no basement air up here. Yay! God is good. My neighbor is playing music and a bird is strutting around picking in the leaves left on my lawn. We will be okay. Which is not perfect, but is pretty sick.