Sitting at the house with my Mom, engaged in her visit with close friends who are discussing the trials and tribulations of getting older.
So far they have covered some treacherous ground, and I really wish I could go un-hear most of this discussion.
They pointed out that I look traumatized.
Aging perhaps are they, but still wildly perceptive.
I’m not sure who lobbed the first unsolicited “getting old factoid”, but the conversation took a turn into realms that make me wish I was a vampire.
I want to feel alive, and I want to be healthy, and fit, and adventurous. I never wish to arrive at this place that make them giggle and snort as they one-up each other with horrifying stories of their most intimately morbid and depressing moments of getting older- facts that should never, ever, be heard by anyone younger than sixty-five.
It’s all, just so wrong.