I am not young or old,

but somewhere in between.

My age is relative and changes depending on whom you ask. A twenty year old will describe me as that older lady, the seventy year old as a young lady.

I am at that age where I am no longer immortal. I am reminded of it many times a week when reading the obituaries. People my age and younger are dying, some “unexpectedly” but most “following a courageous battle”.

I am at that age where I hesitate when I hop down off a chair because I fear hurting a knee or ankle when not so long ago, I would put on a pair of shorts over a pair of tights, pin a towel around my neck and jump off the neighbors fuel oil storage tank, arms outstretched, screaming SUPERMAN!

I am at that age when, sometimes, every headache is a brain tumor and every chest twinge is an impending heart attack.

I am at that age where, in my mind, I am still 25, but after a day of gardening my body screams otherwise.

I am at that age where, as I walk through the cemeteries, I realize that one day, I too, will be in the ground with them.

And it scares me.