Forty

Forty really came in swinging last year, letting me know in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that I am aging.  

At first there were little signs like the sudden ability to sit and stare at a bird feeder, watching the birds come and go and getting a real thrill when a new birdie showed up.  “Oh!  Is that a turtledove?  Where is your partner?”  This is said out loud as if I expect the turtle dove to answer me.

Or when I get home, I find I need to immediately slip a sweater on like Mr. Rogers.  And every time, I say to myself, “I get it now, Mr. Rogers.”

My eyes are in a mutiny and reject contact lenses after wearing them since I was ten. I save them for special occasions or playing sports. Then my eyes get all dramatic, and not in the good way like with smoky eye shadow but rather by getting all puffy and swollen. Same goes for mascara, even the super-expensive-sensitive kind.

I soon began to notice that random cuts or scratches take approximately 743 days to heal.  Like even my skin is too tired to patch things up the way it used to.

Then forty hit hard in June when I ruptured my achilles tendon.  A real sucker punch because I wasn’t even looking—no previous pain, no warning that it was about to happen.  I took a quick step during a basketball game and heard a sound behind me that made me think someone fell on the court.  I felt pressure around my ankle, and asked my team if someone fell on me.  They informed me that no one did, and using my detective skills, I figured out that the sound I heard was my tendon snapping.  A tiny piece held on for dear life, but it was almost a complete rupture.  

I have sprained many an ankle and am used to rehab and recovery.  I expected something similar until I mentioned to people that I ruptured my achilles and their reactions made me realize I had a long road ahead of me.  One friend said, “Dear God, that is a serious injury.”  And I was all, “Is it???”  It is.  

But the (white) icing on the cake concerns my Canadian resident card.  I have to renew it every five years, and for the first time this year, my photo was rejected due to “poor quality.”  As this wasn’t my first rodeo, I carefully reviewed the photo and thought it looked like all my previous photos.  Except I noticed that now my white hair and the white background sort of merge together in a weird way.  But unless I was going to dye my hair, no amount of retakes would fix it.  So I added “I_have_white_hair” to the file name of my photo and re-uploaded it to Canada.  Lo and behold, it was approved.

I am not bitter yet although I can quickly see how bitterness seeps in.  When I get home and get my sweater on and then look out the window to check for birds, I often see someone going for a jog or bike ride (or even just walking without a limp).  I have to push the jealousy away; sometimes it’s a light shove but sometimes I have to wrestle her to the ground (carefully, though, so as not to re-injure myself).  I keep things light by calling to the people, “Have you thanked your achilles tendons today?  Do you know how much they do for you?”  And then I usually sit and brush my white hair, fifty strokes on each side.