I’ve been in denial for a while now.
In spite of the mounting evidence in the mirror – the grey hair, deepening wrinkles, and the extra pudginess – I’ve been stuck in a mental time warp, refusing to believe that “me and mine” are getting on in years.
Events last night have forced me to accept that I am now a person of “a certain age”.
I attended a dinner party with a group of long time friends. It’s an annual tradition where we get together to catch up with one another and what’s been happening over the months since we last saw each other.
I suddenly realized that our conversations have now drifted into the territory of ailments – real and threatened. Kidney stones, visits to emergency rooms, cancer scares, heart attacks, strokes, high blood pressure, diabetes … apparently I wasn’t paying close attention when we became THAT generation.
Last night’s dinner – instead of being a happy celebration of our long friendships – became instead a clear message that the sins of our youth really do come back to haunt us in our 50s and 60s. I went home feeling vaguely unsettled.
I normally run on Sunday mornings, but today there was a deep sense of urgency attached to it. Not the urgency of a training program or impending race date, but the compulsion to feel my body in motion and assure myself that I was still healthy and strong.
So, I laced up my running shoes and ran like the hounds of hell were chasing me. In spite of the grey skies and light drizzle, I ran with a rare sense of exhileration and happiness … because I COULD run. My health today feels like the most precious thing I own.
I feel like one of the lucky ones.