Who Is This Alien and Why is She Making Me Old?

Can't figure it out.

I still feel about -- oh, maybe 22 or so. There seems to be a self-image age where most of us get comfortable, something beyond the teens but not very far into *adulthood* (whatever that means), either. And in our heads, we just hang out there forever. I'm still the same woman, looking out through the same eyes I've always looked out through, but those eyes have bags under them and the glasses in front of them are trifocals. I don't notice any of that so much, probably because I can't see it. :o)

What I *do* notice is creeping arthritis in my hands and loss of muscle tone, more difficulty balancing. The wrinkles! I do not think it's fair that David is four (4) years older than me and his hands and arms and legs aren't all wrinkly like mine. Don't care for any of those things, and I spend a lot of time in deep hot baths because they take away the aches and give me more hours each day of holding books or pecking away at the keyboard or knitting. (Maybe that's why I'm wrinkly.) And a friend of mine who is actually about ten years younger than I am (and lives currently in Europe) found this wonderful French body lotion that really seriously does help and we tracked it down online. What did we do before Google?

And there's the grey hair, of course, which I got a long time ago and kind of like. Not that crazy about the thinning, but I think the color turned out nicely. And then there's the damned diabetes, which is a huge drag. So far I feel fine, actually -- no evident problems except for the cold sweat when something causes my sugar to either skyrocket or plunge. Either way, it feels the same and sometimes I can't tell which way it's going without poking my finger. Rick (my doctor is *Rick,* all nice and casual and brilliant) may be about ready to say let's start the insulin, which I'd rather not do, but on the other hand this constantly watching every bite of everything and then stressing when I can't get my numbers down is, as I said, a huge drag.

I'm not whining and I don't expect to drop dead any minute. I'd better not -- I've got piles of books to read and a lot of yarn to use up. But it's just so weird not to look as young as I feel inside, and to have these ridiculous Old Folks conditions. And people call me *m'am*! Ouch!

Thought I'd mention it.

Off to read -- I'm nearly finished with The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, by one of my perennial favorites, Stephen King. Because *everybody's* grandmother reads Stephen King.