Apparently, it’s jeans with elastic waistbands and mobility carts from here on out.
At least, that’s the truth according to my junk mail.
My birthday is just a few days away. I think the postal service wants me to give up.
Fifty three? Holy shit, that’s really old and lets be honest here, it’s not like you’ve taken great care of yourself. Here, let me help. First, here’s an ad for some comfy jeans. Buy these elastic waistband jeans and then maybe check out that cake batter ice cream Ben and Jerry’s has out.
Also, walking? Way too much effort. Wouldn’t you like a scooter? Remember when you were little and you saw a little kid riding around in a car that wasn’t self-propelled? Even then, you knew that wasn’t your life. You didn’t get a fancy car. You had a wagon and a pogo stick. You didn’t get the Barbie dream house or the Barbie convertible. You pitched Barbie a tent out of dish towels and she drove an empty tissue box. Isn’t it your turn? Here. Here is an ad for a mobility cart. Look how happy the lady on the brochure looks! Don’t you want to be happy?
It has taken so long, but we’re getting back to normal. Poor Randy had a drainage tube and bag attached to his person for over a month. He got that out last week. We’re still shell shocked from the events of this year and trying to remember what “normal” is for us.
I know I’ve been more tired than ever. I know my anxiety has been working overtime. Like right now, it’s whispering about “normal” to me. It’s reminding me that my baby boy will be graduating high school and that we’re going to have to redefine “normal” in such a big way. I don’t want to think about that now. I just want to breathe again.
Then, I see the junk mail I’m getting. Holy shit, you guys, it’d be depressing if it weren’t so hilarious. I get junk mail for hearing aids, medical supply outlets, Life Alert, and AARP.
I wish I had saved all my junk mail. Or at least a few pieces from each year. You’d be able to map my life. I could make a collage from it. You’d see pictures of girls in bikinis and roller blades and dance clubs. Then the junk mail changes and it’s all baby and kid stuff all the time for about 10 years. So that’s 20 pictures of strollers, pack n plays, and breast feeding bras. Then the kid related junk mail will start to taper off. No one will notice that, though. First, because the house is a mess and all three kids have an event to attend. So what if you don’t get breast pump ads any more? Then, the cruise ship ads will start. You find yourself getting inundated from cruise ship mail.
It’s like when the owls from Hogwart’s that brought Harry’s acceptance letter to the Dursley’s house, except it’s cruise ship junk mail and there are no owls.
Next in the collage of a lifetime of junk mail, you will see aging TV personalities smiling at you while pointing to a sign that says “No exam!” and for only 14.99 you can protect your loved ones after you die. Which isn’t that far away because have you seen the other mail you get? Mobility carts and stretch jeans.
I think I’ll call my mother today and ask her what kind of junk mail she gets. I bet it’s nothing but retirement villages and cemeteries for her.
Damn, postal service, that’s some cold shit right there. I mean, maybe you could change things up a bit every once in a while. Send some pictures of half naked men or recipes for cookies that taste like they’ve been made by baby angels riding on unicorns.
I don’t care what my mail says. I haven’t felt like a “different” age for many years. I mean, I’ve changed over the years, but I don’t feel like I’m getting old in my head. I feel the same. Age is meaningless in my head. The rest of me? Yeah, it’s starting to make a difference.
Perhaps the gift I will give myself for my birthday will be to re-acquaint myself with my treadmill. The stretch jeans and mobility carts can go fuck themselves.