A bad week so far, starting with sharp, inexplicable back pain, continuing with painful side effects from the very meds intended to combat the pain, and topped off with vomiting and diarrhea.
Oh, plus I turn forty-four today.
Which means...nothing, probably. After all, I've spent the last few weeks romping with a woman young enough to be my daughter. Is that a desperate attempt to hang on to my youth, or some sort of proof that age doesn't matter? And whatever the ultimate resolution of this little episode, it seems likely to play out as all others in my life have, with a definite sell-by date. Not that I have particular reason to think this is so, it's just how things seem to go for me romantically.
But then, at this age, there's a certain awareness of endings. Not to sound morbid, but how much time is left? Realistically, a few decades maybe? My folks both died in their seventies, and why should I believe myself likely to break that curse? I don't take particularly good care of myself, and while I laugh often, I'm also plagued by inexplicable (and occasionally, all-too-explicable) anxieties, which I feel pecking away at my cardiovascular system, waiting for the perfect time to lead me into a full-blown stroke. The only strange thing is, it hasn't happened yet.
Eh. This all sounds rather morbid, or perhaps simply maudlin. And not remotely celebratory. Then again, I confess I'm not in a celebratory mood. But I'm not in a bad mood, really, or a particularly dark one. I'm trying my best not to look backward or forward, to live in the moment, whatever it may bring. This particular moment finds me rather pensive, but that's not to say this moment will linger. I have so many more, today, tomorrow, the rest of my life. Some will be unbearably sad, some will be overflowing with joy.
And others will be like this, moments spent killing time, wondering when the rest of my life begins.