Old Guy = Me

I have always been an old lady in a not-so-old body. While kids my age were climbing trees and playing in traffic, I was familiarizing myself with Emergency Exits and making sure I didn't catch a chill. Others called me a hypochondriac. I like to think I was merely a realist and if portable hand sanitizers had existed back in the day, you can bet your patooty I would've been stocked up and ready to go. In 4th grade, a kid named Paul saw some rust shavings near the playground and decided they must be cinnamon and so chowed down. I couldn't believe it and made sure to wash my hands a couple of extra times just in case stupidity was contagious. In first grade, I became obsessed with my temperature and spent a ridiculous amount of time sticking the tape-strip thermometer (the ones that looked like an oily sticker and were about as accurate) on my forehead while looking in the full-length mirror inside my mother's closet. One morning, running late as usual, my mom was dashing around the apartment looking for me. I stood facing the mirror trying to decipher the numbers before she found me. "98...What is it? Is that 98.4? 98.6!" Just then, the door swung open.

Mom: Jenny, are you taking your temperature again?
Me (outraged): What? No!
Mom: Then why are you in my closet?
Me; Having a moment to myself. Is that too much to ask?

I realized early on that condescension regarding my need for personal meditation was a surefire way to get the troops to back off. Probably seemed easier than the alternative: therapy. That would come later.

If I was pushing 60 as a six year old, it's logical to assume that I'm hovering around 90 now. This weekend's combination of ulcer flare-up and heart palpitations hit that point home. Riding the subway with the wires of my holter monitor - looking suspiciously like a bomb - made me no friends but definitely got me a seat. I sat down grunting and pufffing since that's what old guys do when they've got wires hanging off their chest. I don't know if I like this new really old me. I'm 33. What the heck do I have an ulcer for? And heart palpitations? The whole thing is getting so, so "old." Now that I'm finally ready to enjoy my relative youth, I'm running around burping, nauseous, and demanding whole quarts of ice cream just like my Aunt Lenny who died at the age of 92 with no legs and a moustache that would put most catfish to complete shame.

Hopefully the burning and aching in my stomach will subside so I can go to sleep, propped up, and anticipating my next dose of Pepcid. It's a good thing I never liked sugar plums.