My body, someone else’s self

February 12, 2010 at 10:47 am Leave a comment

Who the hell is this old broken old fart that’s taken over my body? The one that slips on those hand crutch things before I type or smooths Tiger Balm patches on the base of her spine after she runs or can’t drink coffee after
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?

I mutter to myself white I’m doing things, I need to “go” before I go out for the day,  and I have to eat with my supplements so they don’t upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.

I thought this crap wasn’t supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.

I find myself saying ” when I was a kid” or “back in the day” and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I’ve survived a bunch of things and survived. I’m old enough to remember when people used “back in the old days” for back in the day.” I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with “horseless carriage.”

I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I’m aware that I’m probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I’ve had since I was born.

This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-‘server’ lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn’t read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!

During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term “age spots.” Now I know what they are.

I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don’t believe me. I wouldn’t either at their age.

Entry filed under: Uncategorized.

Don’t kill the piano player, aim for the singer Desert Bloom

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Roberta Gale

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