My sixtieth year

But I'm not sixty yet! Yet it dawned on me that I AM in my sixtieth year of life since at 59, one has completed all of those years. Turning sixty can't be all that different than turning 59 after all. But here I am going through my life and suddenly the reality of my age is like that bad devil on your shoulder commenting darkly on everything about it. It's not all bad though, it seems more like this is my year of resignation, that no one escapes old age. No one. Resignation might be the wrong word, it's more like letting go. Letting go of the notion that I can get rid of those wrinkles, that sag, those brain farts. (They'll be increasing forever more.) Letting go of the idea that I'm still going to make something of myself, that I'll be well-off (bwahahahaha). This is liberating. One tiny shred of light on the overriding fact: I'm dying. The point is we all are, I just keep dwelling on it these days. Might as well share some of my observations today.

I have started to put cream on my face. Those who know me know I loathe to put any type of cream on my skin. I just hate the feel of it. But when I was in Ecuador this year, they sold Retinol (the good strength) over the counter, so the devil on my shoulder told me to get it. Its application is now a daily ritual. 

I can't say it's my favorite station, but Apple Music's "Easy listening" essentials is the station I play most frequently. I bet my grandparents would like it, if they were still alive.

Serge and I both forgot our anniversary this year. We realized it ELEVEN days later, a record. The fact that this made us both giggle helplessly mitigates the horror of the memory loss it implies.

I had a follow-up scan this week about a little thingy they found on my lung last year. I'm still waiting to hear from the doctor. I figure it can go two ways, either I'll need some treatment, or I won't. I'll die or I won't. Wait, I will die, just possibly not from the little thingy on my lung.

My ass looks like a plastic grocery bag with just a little bit of water at the bottom of it. If you're sixty, yours probably does too. (At least that's what I tell myself.)

I haven't written here since we lost Georgie, the two of which may be related. I grieved hard, but then something weird happened, the grief became like a testament to my love for him, and then it was easier. The grief has died down greatly, which in a way almost saddens me, because when will I get to feel such an expression of love again? Not that I'm wishing for more grief, that will surely come, that is, if I don't die first.

Last night we sat in a room full of people where old men sang karaoke songs on stage. We were not one of them. Serge asked me, " Does it feel like we are in a retirement home?" I had to shush him. 

Paying attention. Why did I not do this so much before? Like I can sit and watch the birds at the bird feeder for an hour. It's all happening so fast when you pay attention. I make stories up about the bird squabbles and try to figure out the pecking order between species. Fascinating.

We have a commercial-sized recycle container at our house. When Serge brought it home, I thought it was a great idea. We do go through a lot of cans after all. Perfectly normal, right?

Finally for today, I feel much less inclined these days to share, to create, to DO, and more inclined to observe, consume, and BE. So cliched I know. But it's true and lest you think some of my observations are too dark, rest assured that I am just fine and will keep trying to pay attention. I'll do a year review blog by Christmas. Until then, thanks for stopping by. 😊