Subtle deceleration

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Recent quilt finish that didn't get a proper photo shoot.

This post is about getting older. I use the word deceleration instead of slowing down, in that slowing down insinuates a notion that makes me slightly uncomfortable as I drive pretty fast, lol. But in myriad other manners, I am not the gal I used to be.

I considered this subject before I came home, fully aware that once I came home, writing wasn't going to happen the following morning. It's been some time since I got back from a short trip and immediately dove into writing. I did sit that first morning home and read over several chapters, prepping myself for the next day's work. Yet the writing isn't the only part of me decelerating.

Getting older is a funny thing; it happens gradually of course, but suddenly I feel like, "Wow! I'm, uh, nudging toward my late fifties. How the hell did that happen???" I had a great chat with a friend from my junior and high school days this week concerning this very topic. That aches and pains aside, neither of us feels as old as the numeral delineates. Which is GREAT! What is a number anyway? However....

When the aches and pains emerge, and they truly can spring out of friggin' nowhere, jeez Louise then I really am someone's grandmother, ahem. Let me also say that I am a relatively healthy individual. No prescription meds taken, although I down a few supplements each day (ginkgo, vitamins B-6 and D, turmeric, zinc). I've been lax about my back exercises, for which Future Me scowls, although Past Me shrugs, but Past Me isn't fully aware of what Present Me feels, bless her. But yeah, I'm in pretty good shape.

For fifty-seven, Future Me smirks.

(I never ask Future Me her age, it makes her grumble.)

But there was another reason I wanted to write this post, and for the life of me, I can't remember what it was, probably something related to my deteriorating memory, ha! Seriously, if I don't write something on a list, I forget it. Is that a sign of early dementia/Alzheimer's? Hopefully not, merely another step on the deceleration treadmill. But I am aware of it, in a "Huh, yeah, I am getting older," kind of way.

But then for crying out loud, I am fifty-seven. My youngest granddaughter asked me my age last weekend and I told her and she said, "You're fifty-five?!?" I shot back, "No, I'm fifty-seven!" We all laughed, for I don't mind speaking of such things that years ago women went to great pains to avoid discussing. I'm a lucky gal, in that I'm healthy and not on necessary medications and I still have my own hair colour. Which is kind of a mixed blessing, in that one of my sisters asked if I coloured my hair, LOL! Maybe that's why I don't feel as old as perhaps I could/should. When I look in the mirror, my brunette locks hearken to earlier days as though nothing about me has changed.

Future Me is laughing her backside off, might I say. Her hair is my colour, but I won't ask if she has her roots touched up every six weeks. Mostly I just wish to note that getting older isn't as bad as I used to think it would be, but it's also this strange zone of realizing I won't sew as many EPP quilts as perhaps I once thought I might. I won't write as many novels either. Heck, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow for all I know. Future Me is very tight-lipped about that kind of thing, while Past Me still cranks the tunes to eleven. Take those earbuds out of your ears, I shout at her. Tinnitus is a big fat drag, and one of these days you'll stop using ear/headphones when listening to music.

Past Me shrugs, and I think she stuck her tongue out at me. Fine honey, but I've warned you....

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