It's not that I think I'm getting old, like a stick in the mud or anything. But I'm definitely aging.
I really hurt my neck last night. I leapt over a railing and when I came down on my feet something lodged or dislodged or jarred. Anyway, it's sore. Right now I'm just waiting on it to get better.
Sure I've had a sore neck before. But I usually did something to deserve it before. Like sleep in a closet or take a nasty fall water skiing. But I just landed this time. I'm not sure if my body's trying to tell me to stop landing, but I don't plan on following that advice any time soon.
So while I'm grouchy and sore I've been thinking about how lives change. And, again, I really don't think that I'm old, but I'm getting older. No longer am I thrilled by the prospect of toys or playing hide and seek. I do, however, recall the exhilaration of getting new shelves for my room.
That shocked me. Realizing I could be excited for matching woods in my room. Finding a kitchen table. I think it's the same sort of, "I'm making it mine" thing that throwing up posters of Rammstein and KoRn was in high school but it just seems like such an adult thing.
On the other hand, there's a joyful juvenile tract through my life as well. I'm still pretty keen on comic books, cartoons and movies. Zombie Kickball has been occupying a large part of my cerebellum lately. And I still doodle as obsessively as ever.
But I've been aware of little changes in my body and life that show my advanced years. I guess the fun comes in reconciling the forty years of adultivity ahead of me with the twenty years of youthful exuberance behind. And after sixty five I completely plan on regressing. Should be a fun time.
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