There is a distinct moment every morning, somewhere between the first screaming demand of my bladder – I swear, it is like a spoiled toddler – and the first creak of my ankles, where I lie perfectly still and perform a full-system diagnostic. I’m like a NASA engineer checking a 1970s satellite that’s been floating in deep space for way too long.
Oxygen levels? Stabilizing. Hydration? Critically low. Joints? Reporting back with a series of pops and clicks that sound suspiciously like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
As a Goddess of a certain vintage, I’ve realized that aging isn’t a slow, graceful decline. It’s more like a synchronized protest occurring faster than I ever imagined. It seems my body parts have formed a union, and they are currently on a collective strike. If one more important body part goes all Norma Rae on me, I’m just going to check myself into a facility that serves Jello way too often and smells like a hybrid of pee and antiseptic.
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