The Morning Inventory
Or, “What Fresh Hell Cometh Today?”
Gentle Reader,
There is a distinct moment every morning, somewhere between the first screaming demand of my bladder - I swear, it is like a spoiled toddler - and the first creak of my ankles, where I lie perfectly still and perform a full-system diagnostic. I’m like a NASA engineer checking a 1970s satellite that’s been floating in deep space for way too long.
Oxygen levels? Stabilizing. Hydration? Critically low. Joints? Reporting back with a series of pops and clicks that sound suspiciously like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
As a Goddess of a certain vintage, I’ve realized that aging isn’t a slow, graceful decline. It’s more like a synchronized protest occurring faster than I ever imagined. It seems my body parts have formed a union, and they are currently on a collective strike. If one more important body part goes all Norma Rae on me, I’m just going to check myself into a facility that serves Jello way too often and smells like a hybrid of pee and antiseptic.
Somebody please tell Eric to marry again and this time, pick someone who is young and skinny. That man deserves a trophy wife and she can reap the benefits of me having spent three decades forming him into the perfect husband.
For now, I wake up, blink at the ceiling, and ask the universe: “What fresh hell cometh today?”
The Spotted Map of My Life
Before I even get out of bed, I notice the new additions to the “collection.” Lately, it seems as if the frontier of my skin is being colonized by age spots. Or are they liver spots? Whatever the medical term, they are suddenly everywhere.
I’m not just talking about the back of the hands—the classic “old lady” giveaway. I’m talking about the unexpected frontier. There are spots on my forearms. Spots on my shins. I found one on my shoulder yesterday that I’m fairly certain wasn’t there when I brushed my teeth. It’s as if my skin has decided to become a Seurat painting without my permission. I’m starting to look like a very large, very tired Dalmatian. I spend half my time wondering if it’s a freckle or a sign of the end times, and the other half wondering why “Goddess Gold” looks so much like “Rusty Brown Spatters.”
The Barnacles of the Soul
And then, we have to talk about the Seborrheic Keratoses. My nurse practitioner —who has been my medical person for around fifteen years —wryly informed me that these are commonly called “the barnacles of aging” and that I can just “scratch them off.”
Barnacles. Apparently, my body has decided that since I’ve been sailing the seas of life for well more than six decades, it’s time to start looking like the hull of an abandoned tugboat. These little “stuck-on” growths appear out of nowhere, looking like someone dropped a tiny bit of brown candle wax on your ribcage or your back. They aren’t dangerous, they’re just... there. Eric noticed one on the top of my ear. I mean seriously, WTF? It’s as if this Goddess is slowly being encrusted by her own history. I’m half-tempted to go down to the shipyard and ask them to just scrape me down with a putty knife and a stiff drink.
The Potassium Rebellion
Once I’ve finished cataloging the new topography of my skin, the physical rebellion truly begins. My body has decided it is no longer satisfied with the amount of potassium I provide and chooses to communicate this via eye-watering leg cramps.
At any time in the day or night, my calf muscle can suddenly and without warning turn itself into a (badly rendered) piece of origami. It’s a pain so sharp it makes you want to apologize for every banana you ever neglected to eat. I’m currently one leg cramp away from legally changing my name to Chiquita. Drink more water - my internal organs are already drowning and scrambling to find Wilson, their companion volleyball - and take those horse pill sized supplements!
Mentally in the Desert with Jim Morrison
Then there is the sleep—or the lack thereof. O Captain! My Captain! Brucifer is still waking up at random times in the night ready to join the Rockettes and build houses with Jimmy Carter. My sleep cycle has become more of a sleep “suggestion.” This eight-to-ten hour girl is having to wring a thriving life out of five to seven hours and it just isn’t working.
Neither CBD, liquid doggie melatonin, crating, exercise during the day with no naps, nor gloom of night keeps this little asshole from the completion of his appointed rounds. All you have to do is note the time stamp of this blog post (does Substack use time stamps?): 3:18 am.
By 10:00 AM, I am no longer a functioning member of the 21st century. I am mentally wandering through a hazy, psychedelic desert with Jim Morrison. I’m staring at my computer screen, listening to “The End,” and wondering if the Lizard King also had to remember his password for the pharmacy app. When you haven’t slept, the line between “deep spiritual wisdom” and “I forgot why I walked into the kitchen” becomes dangerously thin.
At this point, I don’t think I have had a good night’s sleep since the Nixon administration.
The Retirement Paradox
And wasn’t I supposed to be retired? I love what I do and times are hard and crazy right now, so a Witch’s work is never done, but this diamond art ain’t gonna do itself. I have a list of things I want to do—the books I want to read, the magic I want to make—but I am perpetually thwarted by the “Things I Must Do.” This conflict takes on a whole new perspective when you have way more road behind you than in front of you.
I’m crabby. I’m “Get Off My Lawn” adjacent. I’ve realized that retirement is actually just a full-time job where your boss is a demanding, potassium-deficient, barnacle-covered body that requires constant maintenance and a very specific type of ergonomic chair.
The Goddess Grace
But even in the “fresh hell,” there is grace, right? …right? Because even if I am mentally in the desert with Jim Morrison, at least I’m in good company. If I’m crabby because I have too much to do, it’s because I still have a life worth living and can still be valuable to others.
We are “Goddesses in the Trenches.” We may be held together by Spanx, Geritol, and the sheer force of ornery will, but we are still here. We are the architects of our own survival even if that survival looks more like the Brady Bunch house than Downton Abbey.
So tomorrow morning (later this morning?), when I do the “Morning Inventory” and find a new “barnacle” has docked itself onto my shoulder, I’ll just sigh, eat a banana, scratch Bruce on his entirely kissable little head and remind myself: I’ve survived every other fresh hell the universe has thrown at me. Today is no different. BRING IT!