Moving Targets

I've been realizing in recent years, and I really don't like saying it out loud, I'm starting to age. For so long, like ever, I've felt really young and have not had a problem keeping up with anyone. As a youngster, I would often brag about how I was going to be young and fit forever. So, imagine my displeasure when one of the kids asks why I have extra skin above my knees.  Or, my favorite, when they inform me that I have hairs growing out of my nose. Thank you.

Growing up, my sweet dad was always good at dropping little hints about the aging process. He was good at a lot of things. Perhaps he recognized my youthful cockiness and he was artful in his teaching, dropping seeds of wisdom that he knew would sprout, someday. He'd say things like, "My eyes and reflexes aren't as good as they used to be. That happens naturally as you get older."  And when he had a few moles removed by the dermatologist, he called them "the barnacles of old age."  I, of course, disagreed and always complemented him on his youthfulness, even when he'd refer to himself as "elderly".  All I can say now, is that all of his seeds have fully sprouted and I'm heavily embedded in a dense forest of denial.

It's funny how old always stays one step ahead of you - a moving target.  In my 20's, I thought being 45 was old. Now that 45 is in my not-so-distant future, I don't think it's old at all.  But, with 45 gaining ground, I have to admit that I'm not as young as I think I am.

Just the other day, I was taking our youngest son to soccer practice.  It was his first practice of the season with his new coach.  As the coach walked past us, entering the complex, another mom and I exchanged a giggle. "He's a baby," I said. "We could be his mother." Suddenly, it wasn't quite so funny. We stopped giggling.

And today, after weeks and weeks of an irritably sore knee, I finally made the time to see an Orthopedist. It used to be that when I'd go to the doctor, it would be an older man (in his 40's) and I'd feel in capable, experienced hands. Today, my doctor walked in, shook my hand and sat down across the room. As I studied his baby-smooth face, it painfully struck me that I could be his mother, too. I wondered if I should ask him how much practice he's had, all by himself, with patients and if his mom packed his lunch for him this morning.

He was kind and impressed me right away when he took notice of my age, but did not speak in a louder voice. He asked me to fill out a questionnaire on the history of my knee, wanting me to note any athletics, sports played and anything else that would cause "long-term" wear and tear on the joint. He seemed impressed that I had not had any knee issues before now, with my lengthy athletic history. After some x-rays, he pointed out the good news. No arthritis. Whew, at least that saved me from feeling like a geriatric patient. He did say that my knee cap was slightly dislocated and suspected a slight tear in the meniscus, but needed an MRI to be sure.

Although I had not done anything to hurt my knee, he kindly explained that with "my age" being what it was, almost anything could cause it to tear. I shook my head, as if to say, yes, I am elderly and almost in need of a walker. Perhaps the short trip to the drug store to buy laxatives caused the tear.  But, he made up for the comment about my age by moving closer, so I could see the diagram he had drawn.