holy moly i’m old

About five years ago Hubby and I travelled with the rest of his family to Texas for the wedding of a cousin.  While there we shared a hotel with another family group, a family reunion group, and as family reunions tend to be, it was a group of old people.  I mean that in the nicest possible way, but it was a gathering of white-hairs who moved awfully slow.

At the continental breakfast one morning I couldn’t help but overhear their conversations.  In the dining room, in the lobby, wherever they happened to congregate, all they talked about were their physical ailments and the ailments of others–the surgeries they’d had, which part of their body is no longer working, about so-and-so’s upcoming surgery, why the other what’s-his-face couldn’t come to the reunion because of his body falling apart, what medicines they liked and disliked.  THAT WAS IT.  They no longer had jobs to talk about, politics didn’t interest them, the weather was too boring.  The only thing worth talking about was their deteriorating health.

Five years later I’m pregnant again, and every night when Hubby comes home and asks me how I am it is “Boy, am I tired today.”  Or “My hips have REALLY been hurting.”  Or “I’m nauseous.” Or “Man, this pregnancy is making my allergies act up.”

HOLY MOLY I’M OLD.

Sure, I eventually fill in Hubby on the rest of our day, but the most interesting–and therefore first thing I talk about–is my deteriorating health.  That is what my poor husband has to hear about right away.

And then I started thinking:

• I would totally eat dinner at 4:30 with the rest of the geriatrics if my family were also hungry at that time.
• I can barely bend over to pick up toys off the floor.
• My back and my hips always hurt.
• I move very slowly.  Very.  On the track at the Y last week Hubby and I got lapped by some retirees.

This pregnancy turned me into an old person.