Thoughts on aging

I have decided I don't like aging.

When I was younger, and someone said "Getting older sucks!" (quite often my husband, who is about 12 years older than me), my pat response was always "It's better than the alternative." Now that I have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, can't sit on my hardwood floor for more than five minutes without my spine telescoping together, and am having a hard time hiding the gray hairs, I'm starting to agree that it might suck just a little.

Years ago, when I learned I was pregnant with my son, I had visions of a happy baby in a cushioned basket, gurgling away outside on the grass while I worked in the garden nearby, doing undetermined things with some plant which still remains nameless. A son and two daughters later, I guffaw (yes, guffaw, a word we should use more) at my naivete. I might as well have envisioned birds and butterflies alighting gently on my shoulders and fingertips while I was at it.

Now that I'm feeling the age process set in a little, I wonder what it will be like for me when I really do get old. Will I be the energetic, crusty old woman I hope to be, in a ridiculous purple hat (for when I am an old woman, I shall wear purple!), working in my garden, still engaging in some as-yet determined plant activity? Or will I be aching, broken, and bewildered at the disappearance of my beautiful vision?

Maybe it's time for me to hone some of those 7 1/2 habits: start with the end in mind, and play more. What exactly will those plants be, where will they be, and what will I be doing to them? (And why did I ever decide to grow zucchini?) Pay more attention to the physical aspect of my life--the neglect is starting to catch up to me. And find out where to get a ridiculous purple hat.