There's No Hope for Me

Have you ever wondered what you will be like as a senior citizen? For most people it is as simple as looking at their parents. Many don't want to admit the truth, but they know it's coming. Some are actually able to break the cycle, but only if they possess great strength and discipline.


I'm not that strong. I. Am. Doomed.


In fact, I've pretty much given up. When I am with my parents it is routine for me to utter, "There's no hope for me." At first it was a joke, but now it has become my mantra. Sometimes I don't realize I'm saying it.  


It's just a matter of time before words like watermelom, cantelopem, and chester drawers become common place. CASE IN POINT- there was no hesitation when I typed those words, and my eyes rolled when the wavy red line popped up underneath.


Here's a real "kicker" of a habit I just noticed that I've picked from my daddy. (Ugh. I cannot believe I am admitting this.) When my father wants to get out of his recliner he gives a kick-start by raising one leg and kicking down to propel himself up. A few days ago I was lying on my bed with my legs danging off the side, and I kick-started my way to a sitting position. (Typed with gritted teeth.)


There are other symptoms as well. I like to stick my face out of the front door to test the weather like my mom. I also like to dance around as I do simple things around the house- just like Mama.


The knock-out blow to my transformation came over the weekend when I realized that I had burned/cut my hands/fingers every week for the last three weeks. In case you don't remember that little nugget of family history, you can read it here.  At least it wasn't one of my frumbs.


Now I can do without burning and cutting myself, and I realize the need to work on my abs (no more kick-starts!), but it isn't all bad. I like to stick my face out the door to test the weather. I like seeing the day for myself. And dancing around while cooking and cleaning? We should all be doing that! 


There's also the generosity I see in action through my mama that is worthy of imitation. And what about the work ethic of an 82 year-old who still works 40 hours and plays 18-36 holes of golf a week? (Okay, he's not actually 82 until the 23rd of this month... still!)


So there's no hope for me.


And I kind of like it.