Staying out of the tall grass

I am 51. More than half a century. Today, after scrubbing wallpaper glue off the living room walls with Fred, I went to yoga and was intrigued by all the crazy little tiny muscle aches I could experience. It was really more interesting than bothersome – before they developed twinges, I was singularly unaware of the many muscles I use each day to twist and bend. Now, I’m truly grateful they keep holding me up.

At Thanksgiving dinner, our pal Katherine was enumerating people she knew who’d retired in their early 50s. Won’t be me, that I know, but it reminded me of my venerable status. I’m a relic, but can still run (slowly) with the medium-sized dogs. I’ll leave the tall grass to the big ones.