Yesterday I got about seven suspicious skin thingies burned off. This morning the technician took extra pictures of my right breast. There is no end to my paranoia. Even while I know I am not in control of this body. I can be kind to it, but random stuff happens, and the aging in and of itself brings dangers. It's out of my hands, but somehow I don't really believe that all the way. At least I don't kill a chicken or have my neck laden with good luck charms. Every checkup now feels like I'm squeezing past a disaster by a hair's breath. So many of my friends have fallen or had surgeries or live with fear of the word reoccurence. Good people, people who live generous, loving lives.
Yesterday I was reading O magazine, and in it was a big article on superfoods. These evidently require trekking to South America or some such thing, and in it I see our culture's desperation. We're all Ponce de Leon's, looking for the fountain of youth. Probably it would be enough to cut out the sugar and fries, but somehow that's not exotic enough. My doctor gave me this little paperback called "Sugarbusters" and it is easy to follow and sensible. I don't eat sugar and haven't in years. So to me fruit is super sweet, dark chocolate exotic, and bread and potatoes a big treat. Yeah, I still miss eclairs and once in a while I have a fantasy involving donuts, but mostly I still love food and can have a cappuchino for desert and feel treated royally.
I'm trying to make my peace with my age and the inevitable result, but like everyone else, I fight to live this life I love. It's a balancing act, and I haven't quite got it down yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment