Age is stealthy. It tiptoes in. Like the fatigue you get after too much red wine. (You are talking, chatting, laughing, tossing your hair back and "pour me another, please, thank you." And then you stand up. Suddenly, your head throbs, and you can barely keep your eyes open.)
I watch the clock now. Because if too many hours pass, it will be hard to get out of bed. I worry about being stuck in traffic. And having enough time to clean the house, do the laundry, pay the bills and change the litterbox. (I should start eating breakfast every day. At least a piece of toast and some peanut butter.)
Limits are strange. Stranger even: recognizing them. I tell myself it's okay to stand near the crackers and cheese at a party, holding a glass of water instead of a beer. It's okay to choose the small dinner at a friend's house instead of pub-hopping on St. Patrick's Day.
It's all okay.
And saying no doesn't mean being boring.
Right?
No comments
Post a Comment