For my "old" friends

So, I guess I'm really OLD now

Don't bother telling me age is only a state of mind. I know there's some truth to it, and I believe I manage to have about as much fun as anybody I know. But there are so many things telling me that, yes, I am old.

Medicare, for instance. I still have my husband's insurance where he works, and I also have Medicare Plus (which actually pays better on some things than Cliff's insurance). Today I went for my free welcome-to-Medicare checkup. The nice folks in my doctor's office were totally confused: They didn't know what to do, since I had both. The lady up front finally said, "I'll send it in to both and see what happens."

Another thing that made me realize I am indeed a senior citizen is the fact that my grandma was sixty-five when I was seven years old. I thought she was incredibly old! I recall one time checking out the life line on her palm, and finding it to be a relatively short one. I laughed and told her that couldn't possibly be right, because she already had a long life!

And here I am, sixty-five years old.

There's also the nagging knee pain that sometimes makes me feel very fragile. The knees only hurt when I'm standing or walking, though. Sitting or laying in bed, I am totally pain-free.

So, how did my checkup turn out? So far, so good. I have great bone density. Yay for me. I wasn't surprised to learn that I have high blood pressure; I had noticed it creeping up, the past few months, although that top number of 180 did shock me. Now I get to start taking pills for that. I'm crossing my fingers that the blood test results won't reveal any cholesterol problems, or diabetes. My mom had late-onset diabetes, but none of her siblings did, nor any of my dad's siblings.

Take a look at the name-my-calf contest. My son-in-law's choice, Sir Loin, is in the lead!

In response to my good buddy, Guy:

Here's the comment Guy left on this morning's post:

"Wait just a minute Missy, you are a gardener and you don't compost your coffee grounds? You have horses and you throw away your carrot peels? You have grease and you don't heat it up until it is liquid and mix it with bird seed? And you don't recycle your boxes? Are you sure you are a farm gal?"

Dear Guy:

I didn't garden for the past two years because it's painful. I have bad knees and bad feet. They hurt; now that I think about it, everything hurts. I'm sixty-five years old, and daily tasks aren't as easy as they used to be.

I'm tired, and when I'm done with my coffee grounds and carrot peelings, I don't have any desire to take a long walk out somewhere in the pasture and (a) toss them on a compost pile, or (b) feed them to a horse who, at this time of year is probably out on the back of our forty acres. Cliff is just lucky I made his coffee and cooked his meal on this particular day.

Guy, I'm tired. I only decided to have a tiny garden this year because I want some tomatoes, and I won't guarantee that anything out there in that plot will make it to maturity. Because if it isn't worth the effort and pain, I'll stop.

Let me hear from you when you're sixty-five. Maybe you can handle pain and weariness better than I can.

Just for the record, Guy: I think you're a fine person. There is no anger in this post. Just walk a mile in my shoes.

As always, I'll be looking forward to your daily posts every morning when I get up.