My aunt the Queen of Bohemia had a small scare today – her vision got blurry and her feet wobbly, so off she went to the ER, where I duly joined her as soon as I could leave work. Turned out to be nothing at all, just a small blip in the matrix I guess. Those blips happen when you’re 85 – hell, they happen at my own, not quite as advanced, age, so I get it. I only ended up being there an hour or so, which is pretty much three lifetimes in non ER hours, but still, it was really as nothing. Much worse for her and my brother, who were there for far longer.
As I was sitting there amid the beeps and bings and purposeful people rushing around I was thinking though, about my own eventual old age. I’m hoping not to have much of one; after watching my mother and now my aunt, not to mention various other friends and relations, go into, through and out the other end of seniorhood, I’m not particularly interested in that carnival ride. No, instead I think age 80 sounds like the ideal time to discover just what all the fuss has been about heroin. I used to think I would live in a dumpster behind the Waffle House with a shopping cart full of cats while I indulged my newly found drug heaven, but you know, some dreams may just not be achievable. One hopes.
However, as I was musing upon how miserable the whole indignities of old age thing looked from this side (look, old ladies, depends, all the jokes, all the cystitis in the world and yet again being female fucks you over physically towards the end, YARGH, keep those kegels coming although it probably is not enough) and then I thought, girl, when you were, say, 20, if you had looked at yourself now, what would you have thought about your lifestyle? OH GOD NO is pretty much the answer to that one and I’m not even as much older than my 20 year old self as Annie is to me.
So perhaps it is fine to be aged after all, because I don’t really hate my lifestyle so much as I think it could use some major improvements, namely, a ticket back to the middle class. Or, failing that, at least an answer to the eternal question, what the FUCK is that smell in the kitchen and how do I make it go away forever? I will hope that all this will have some answer someday.
Anyway the photo, of the oh so exciting ER entrance at Mission Hospital, has been fixed to make it, like old age itself, almost bearable and somewhat less boring.