The Glory Of Age
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
I watch the clock that follows me relentlessly, stalking me like a shadow.
With one hand, it gives me pain in my lower back and a crink in my neck. My legs no longer move as I resemble the Tin Man with every echoing creek.
A youthful woman in the mirror has been replaced with a more haggard woman with the occasional silver streak.
I stare at this older person looking back at me and snigger, there is no way that person is me.
My boobs are sagging, my skin is sagging, my bum is sagging. Sometimes, I feel like a fabulous Barbie being left under a heat lamp, melting more and more by the second.
I curse the sand that trickles to the bottom of the hourglass, which bursts and sand embeds itself in my eyes, ensuring I see nothing else but the seconds that I cannot relive or return.
As I stagger around, blinded, I miss the brightly wrapped gifts that time has given me. That my ever-increasing age is not just a death sentence, but a privilege.
