Crow’s Feet
That Golden Years Package
Can we rethink it?
How often have you asked yourself, “Who first called these the Golden Years?” I can tell you that question haunts me these days. I admit I never really looked ahead to retirement. Even now that term does not seem to register with me. At age seventy, I still rise early, have my coffee on the porch with my husband and dogs, then paste myself together and head into the office at the large cemetery complex where I continue to work.
But my days are plagued with sudden and mysterious aches and pains that appear and disappear with frightening regularity. I have never been considered athletic. That is ok with me. My youth was hard farm work and amateur rodeo riding until I decided I had hit the ground often enough that I was just done with horses forever. That left me a stocky gnome-like man in fairly good condition.
Lately, my nights are interrupted by the male curse of frequent trips to the bathroom. Out of nowhere, Charlie horse muscle cramps in my leg have been startling me awake with regularity. Yes, I know drinking pickle juice is supposed to help, and I like pickle juice, but just how much is too much? And does that help? Does anyone know an old wife I can ask about that tale?
