I’ve also noticed that lopping five years off my age-o-meter works about as well as recalibrating the bathroom scale to disguise “Middle Age Spread.” I’ve decided those extra fifteen pounds are as permanent as they are pesky. So are the cumulative effects of gravity. Some days I’m convinced that even my freckles are drooping.
Then there’s the bathroom mirror. Someone keeps chiseling lines all over my face every time I look at it. Well, that mirror was never much of a friend anyway. These days I just ignore it. Ditto the bottle of Moisturizer for Enriched A of L’Oreal. I just stash it behind the maturing skin. (Can’t tell you how much I love THAT one!) And my eye glasses? Hey, I really don’t NEED those specs. Only when I want to see.
Speaking of physical effects from The Hill, I’m still trying to figure out why my tennis racquet meets every service return and ground stroke in “super slo-mo.” I also suspect those tennis balls bounce faster and farther with each passing year. At least, that’s what my feet say. Er … holler.
Same thing with power walking and jogging. The latter is an activity I’m rapidly relegating to the “used to” category. After thirty minutes of pounding the pavement these days, I discover joints and muscles I didn’t even know I had. Especially the next morning. Seems some parts of the ‘ole bod can’t be bothered to put in an appearance before I rate a sufficient number of candles on the cake!
While I can’t honestly reduce the number of cake candles, I’ve learned something else: When the years pile up they equal Aging. We groan about it, poke fun at it, try to hide it. But we can’t stop it.
You see, I can’t quite say “thirty-five” anymore without a severe conscience pang. Well OK, I can’t say “thirty-nine” without a twinge. When I mumble “forty-two,” at least I’m in the ballpark! Still, whether I’m giggling or guffawing up The Hill, I’m reminded with every step that candle costs could be a lot worse.
I’ve also learned something else about Middle Age. The Hill offers a view of the horizon not always obvious to wet behind the ear whipper-snappers. Specifically, my perch in the Nose Bleed section helps me see that the same One who guided my footsteps Yesterday and orders them Today is blazing a trail for my Tomorrow. He’s planting sign posts along the way. They’re called “birthdays.” Each candle reminds me that every new laugh line, gray hair or drooping freckle means I’m another day closer to Home. And another reason to celebrate.
