Recent incidences of aging.

I know it's been brought to everyone's attention quite frequently in the past year or so that I am not so much in my twenties as in my geriatrics, so much so that during my brief sojourn in Lexington, KY, I received a loving thoughtful package in the mail from two (perilously close to former) friends, that contained a tube of Gold Bond medicated cream.

I am doing a lot of considering as the year anniversary of my ridiculously overwhelming life changing illness (which sometimes comes out far more dramatic than it really was, excepting the fact that I happened to have just embarked on pretty much the only career path that could be immediately put to death by my diagnosis) looms ever nearer. This anniversary means a lot of things, like I can get another tattoo and I can take the Med-Alert tag off my keychain (it's been lolling around in my purse so long at this point that the words have faded, and the permanent marker I inked over them has also faded, so should an emergency occur I hope there'll be someone in the know on hand to inform the paramedics what my now-generic keychain is supposed to be warning them about).

Those things in themselves indicate an increasing trend toward youthfulness. However, since the illness occurred last August I have worked a couple of different jobs, all of which required me to be on my feet and running around like crazy for eight hours a day. Good for circulation, good for the reduction of swelling. Now I'm working in a cubicle, the health benefits of being on my feet all day are no longer available. I have traded in my stinky, sweaty foodservice odor and tired aching feet for a swollen ankle, and the swollen ankle is the problem that could prove to be life threatening.

In the spirit of such, while at the pharmacy the other day picking up the scheduled refill on my anti-coagulants, I tossed a pair of compression hose into my basket.

Tomorrow I'm going to go to my doctor and beg to not have to wear them, though the last two days of sitting on my ass have yielded not so much as a bulge in my once-again svelte right ankle.

Combine that with the fact that the gentleman who promised to call tonight for dinner and various other activities around 8pm called at 11:30 to apologize and see if I was still up for other activities, and my response was "Sorry, bud, I'm going to bed," I'd say that my superficial signs of aging have officially turned inward.

Eight hours of sleep has officially trumped staying up late to make out.

Holy crap.