I’ve always known my body wanted to kill me. It’s just that when you’re younger, sheer youth and vitality can hold things in check. Once age starts to kick in, it all starts to become more and more precarious. You begin to realize the whole mess is about as sturdy as a house of cards.
As a result, my body and I have circled each other warily, always watching the other one for a sign of weakness. Me doing everything possible to strengthen and build my constitution up, while my body gleefully breaks something, hoping to muck up the works.
But I’ve always managed to rally, to put the traitor in its place. “Not today” I shout. “You’ll have to do better than that.” My body, unfortunately, takes this as a challenge. It’s imaginative.
And so we go, locked in a fight to the death. The conclusion hasn’t been written yet, my treacherous friend. A little bit of duct tape and some spackle and I’m good to go. I know this isn’t going to end well, but for the moment I’ve got the upper hand.
I’m not dead yet.