On the Sagging of Time

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Nobody cares to listen to someone gripe about her age.  I find it as boring and depressing as the next person and yet I’m about to do it.  Well, kind of.

My 38th birthday is in a handful of days and, while I’ve always loved birthdays as a category, I’m not ready for this one.

Thirty-eight is no man’s land.  To wit:  I’m not old, but I’ve kissed youth goodbye if my eye bags are an indication of anything (and I suspect they are as I’ve been sleeping through the night for years, thanks).

I believe in Heaven as an actual place.  I believe in the doctrine of future new bodies for those who are reconciled to God.  These are truths I’ve embraced for more than two decades now.  So I shouldn’t fret at the blotchiness of my skin, at the tired expression I habitually wear even when I’m feeling kind-of awesome.  These things are not my forever.

But I do fret.  Not always, but often enough.

I’m stuck in the middle of things–longing for the eternal and, sometimes, for flashes of the vigorous past.  After all, I can still jump on a trampoline with my kids without peeing on myself, but I can’t finish a movie if I start it too late.

This is the way it is for everyone fortunate enough to have her health and a modicum of stability in the in-between years.  I suppose it’s a kind of luxury to feel safe enough that one can afford to fuss about crow’s feet.

In the end, I won’t offer pith or wisdom.  I’ll leave these words suspended, like I am

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