Fifty-nine and Counting

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old-age-rejuvenator-centrifuge

It’s hard enough turning 60 this year without receiving cheerful fliers entitled, “Assisted Living Facilities Near You!” Like, that’s a good thing?  Sigh.  Not to say there aren’t real blessings that come with age, which I’d recount to you right now if my thoughts hadn’t just disappeared into thin hair, along with all the important documents I remember for sure putting in a very safe place.  I imagine the moment I leave the prison of this body, and walk the corridor to freedom, a smirking demon in a guard hat will hand me my misplaced car keys and mock, “Here…and good luck remembering where you parked your car.”  

Jerk.  What satisfaction I’ll have when I say, “Keep it.  I BMW (Be Meetin’ ya-Weh) now.   

Until then, I’m gonna chuck- or at least file in my very safe place- the ads to join AARP (the answer is still NO), the fliers advertising discounted funeral services (what does discounted mean?  I get rolled in bubble wrap and laid in a brown box marked Amazon?).  I might dabble in miracle cures for horrid age spots, body-part firmers (sung to the tune, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro…”) and plantar fasciitis arch supports, But I’m sorry- I draw the line on some things: I have no intention of visiting Viagra Falls. 

Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong.  Perhaps these are memos from heaven, sent to help me consider this verse:

“Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom.”    Ps. 90:12

Obviously, I haven’t arrived, but my days are numbered.  I’m counting on it.  

 

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