Abner Serd

Author | Humorist | Storyteller

The “A” Word

We are not going to talk about age. Okay?

I’m not going to ask you how old you are, and I’m not going to tell you how old I am. The reason is simple: calendar age has nothing to do with how old a person is.

Age is relative, and how old you are has more to do with how old you feel than how many birthdays you’ve had. But counting up those birthdays can have a psychological effect, both internally and externally.

If you feel twenty years old, but the calendar says you’re forty, who are you going to believe? Who knows better: you, or the calendar?

Now, mind you, I’m not saying it’s a good idea to decide you’re really only twenty, then proceed to go out and do something reckless. Some things you shouldn’t do even when you’re twenty, only some of us don’t figure that out until much later. But what I am saying is, if you start believing what the calendar says, then there’s a good chance you’re going to start acting like you’re forty even though you’ve got the body of a twenty thirty okay, thirty-five year old.

And the psychological effect works externally, too. I know a woman who looks sixty, but acts like she’s fifty. I always thought of her as somewhere in that range. And I tell you, folks: I was downright offended when somebody told me she’s seventy-five. I felt cheated – not by the woman, but by learning that awful fact about her. Knowing her calendar age made it so much harder to see her as someone who could have easily been twenty-five years younger. Oh, she still acted the same – but my perception had changed. It’s one of those things I wish I never knew.

So I ain’t a-gonna tell you how old I am. But I will tell you this: today I got angry all over again. In fact, I’m still seething! Some things I wish I never knew.

I went to the doctor today. My right wrist has been bothering me for a while now. Not a lot, but enough to conclude that I should get it looked at before embarking on a physically-demanding six-month-long project. Normally, I’d let it heal on its own, but it’s been cranky for over a year now. It’s not getting any worse, but it’s not getting any better, either. So, I thought I’d check with the doctor.

It’s bloody arthritis, is what it is.

Arthritis! Me!

I’m too young to have arthritis! Of all the … and this is really bad timing, too! Not at all what I wanted to hear! I wanted to hear that it was nothing – that it would go away eventually – that it was something I could actually do something about. Not some old man’s … sheesh!

And it’s worse than that: now that the A-word has been diagnosed, every other minor ache or twinge is gonna make me wonder. That pang I’ve been feeling in my left knee the last few days? Is that arthritis, too? How’s that gonna affect the walk?

No. Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know. I will never be healthier than I am right now, and I’m doing this thing. I’m walking across the continent, one last one more time.

I’m not that old.

Sheesh!

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