Whoever decided small critters were good for older people?
When I bent down to pick up the littlest dog during the morning rush, something in my left lower back went awry.
After I’d deposited the oldest grand-girl at the school curb and returned home, I cranked the shower up hotter than hot and let the water pound on that spot right above my left hip while I hung upper body down, slightly tilted to the right, and arched my back like a cat.
Don’t try to picture that.
When the water ran cold and the fog hung heavy, I felt my way out of the bathroom into the kitchen where I rifled through the drawer for ibuprofen. I tipped three pills into my palm, dropped one, and then crawled around on the floor to find it before a pup beat me to it. I dusted it off and swallowed all three with a gulp of cold coffee.
Back in front of the mirror, I saw my mother looking at me. There was a bruise on my shoulder. I don’t know where that came from. And the black warty thing on my neck, the one my doctor blasted with nitrogen a couple years back, is back. I touch it with my index finger (what if it turns out to be cancer?) and notice the web of wrinkles on the back of my hand. I squeeze four fingers together with the other five and decide the tenting rises like a couple bird’s feet.
Fact: I’m not a spring chicken any more.
I’m feeling my age, and time hums by, and I’m growing old(er).
Grab a glass of lemonade or sweet tea and join me today under Diane Bailey’s magnolia for the rest of this story.
In the stillness,
P.S. Can I direct your attention to my sidebar where I’m hosting an online party through Vi Bella Jewelry in order to return to Haiti in December to love on those kids in the orphan village? I would be most grateful.