Growing old is for sissies
My Dad always said that growing old was for sissies. My husband told me to stop coloring my hair and go gray because of my age. The people at work now call me Trish 2.0 because I embraced my Dad’s philosophy and watched my husband move to another state (his decision, not mine).
Why is it, when we hit a certain age that everyone seems to think we’re too old to do anything? My Mom, who is 85 years young, helped me shove a king-size mattress over a courtyard wall and flip it end over end to the bottom of the driveway for the junk man to haul it away. She’s a tiny woman, coming in at just under five feet tall and weighing maybe 110 pounds. She says she’s only 65. I believe her. (Which is nice because that would make me younger!)
My knees don’t work as they used to and I tend to hit the bed at 9 pm or earlier nowadays, but that doesn’t mean I’m old. It means I got up at 5 am, fed the cats, fed the dog, cleaned the litter boxes, showered, changed and drove 35 minutes to work. Put in a nine-hour day, drove back home in grueling traffic (Las Vegas drivers are the worst!), fed the cats, fed the dog, had dinner with my Mom and then sat and watched TV for an hour. After that, I chopped up carrots for the wild rabbits, changed the bird bath water for the birds, watered the cactus, turned on the sprinklers and cleaned the litter boxes. I think I have a right to be pooped!
My thoughts are muddled. Not because I’m old, but because I haven’t put them on paper in such a long time.
There is a time and a place to be a grown-up and do things that grown-ups have to do, but that doesn’t mean I have to grow old.