Apparently, I’m getting old. I’m in my mid-30s, so to some it shouldn’t be a surprise. I, however, find it a little difficult to accept. I’m not that old. No, I haven’t run the marathon I intend to complete yet; in fact my running has been sporadic at best this year. And no, I haven’t stopped drinking beer; perhaps I drink too much, but it’s a debatable point I can argue.
But people have noticed my face has been redder than usual. Suntan starting to develop, I say. I’ve torn the backside of an old pair of pants, but they were starting to look threadbare anyway. It was just a matter of time. My blood pressure has been a bit high lately. Stress, I suggest. It’ll go down again when things get better. But, perhaps it won’t. As an EMT, I should know better than to blow off the signs and symptoms of a changing physical condition. And stress isn’t healthy anyway, so it’s not helping me even if I can explain its root cause.
Maureen recommended I see our doctor. It’s been several years since I had a real physical, so she’s probably right. I might learn that my cholesterol is higher than I think it is. See ya later Saturday egg brunches, it was nice knowing you. I might be Lipitor-bound, a sure sign of increasing age among the chronically middle-aged man in denial. There probably are other beloved food items I’ll be told to eat in moderation.
I’ve cut out my afternoon cup of tea, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to be enough to stem the tide of creeping age. While I accept change, I don’t really want too much of it in my life. This sounds like the beginning of some significant changes. Damn. I was just starting to get used to being over 30, too.
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