On our recent trip to North Carolina, a friend said to me, “You know when you get into your 70s, a lot of people spend much of their time in doctor’s offices.” Well, Lord knows, I didn’t want to hear that. Since we have moved to Florida, I have had more doctor’s appointments than I care to admit, most of which, however, were to register so we had them in place.
Since our move, I have had the following medical issues:
1. Bites on feet from stepping on fire ants
2. Rash on hands from handling plants
3. More bites on feet from stepping on fire ants in a different venue (wore shoes both times)
4. Swollen knee (recurring with no pain or stiffness—just ugly)
5. Flu (4 days - no flu shot)
6. bronchial virus (epidemic proportions all over country)
7. sun spot burned off neck (abusing sun when 12)
8. dehydration sending me to 24 hours in ER
None of these was life-threatening, even though some felt like it. They were all fluky things that could have happened at age 9, but because I am “of a certain age,” people label this as “getting old.”
There are other things I won’t mention, but suffice it to say that I may be growing old, but I am getting younger by the minute. The more dumb things that happen, and the more preventive measures these doctors prescribe, the sassier I become. I am just getting started, world. Don’t label me, dismiss me, or try to stop me.
I have already identified the title of the “Trilogy” I will write when I can’t walk or talk. I have already figured out the next one-woman show I will record when I no longer look good in my gown and bling. I will wear my stilettos to my grave. I will dance in them behind my walker, jump in them over my vaporizer and kick and scream in them when they come for me in the white coats.
Nope, you can’t stop a Fifi (George, Emma, Kay). There is only one of me, and if you’re lucky, you will rub up against my spirit and take some of my energy for yourself.