I don’t know exactly when it began, but I realize now that I’ve become an old woman. Not old in the sense of age, I still have many more years left in me. But old in the sense of habits. When I was in my twenties and thirties, fully aware of the warning signs , I swore I would not succumb when I got older.
What do I mean by old lady habits? For one, I carry a sweater or pashmina on occasion, in case it’s chilly. I don’t mean chilly outside, I mean chilly inside, like the air is more conditioned than I need. Or maybe I’m the unlucky one sitting under the vent. Whatever the reason, I’m cold, and I don’t like it.
Two, my knees, ankles, and feet snap, crackle, pop more than a large bowl of Rice Krispies. Forget any plan to sneak around the house. No midnight snacks for me. My bones and joints announce my presence like an updated version of Ed McMahon. “Heeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrre’s Monica!” However, no one applauds my arrival like they did for Johnny Carson.
(See I am getting old. I reference people who were on television twenty years ago.)