Why is everyone so anxious to write me off?
I describe my knee pain to a friend, and he tells me that my days of playing basketball are almost over.
Elysha gets pregnant, and I am told that we won’t be going out to movies for at least ten years.
Clara is born and I am told that my chances of a goodnight’s sleep in the foreseeable future are nil.
I complain about how difficult it was to install four air conditioners on a hot, Sunday afternoon, and I am warned that I won’t be able to lift air conditioners on my own for much longer.
I’m bleary-eyed after arriving home at 4:00 in the morning following a Monday night football game and then arriving at work a couple hours later and am told that my ability to pull an all-nighter is short-lived.
I bemoan the number of toys scattered throughout my living room and am told that my house won’t be clean again for years now that I have a child.
Why is everyone so goddamn anxious to predict the same doom and gloom that has apparently befallen them?
For a long time, I’d say something like, “We’ll see…” or “I hope not.”
But as I’ve gotten older, these warnings have become so prevalent that I can no longer hold my tongue. A couple weeks ago I was suffering from a fever and sore throat and was warned by a coworker that “You’re days of bouncing back quickly from illness are probably over.”
Rather than offering an amused smile, I let her have it.
“Why would you say that to me? I’m sitting here with a fever and a sore throat and you find it necessary to tell me how ill equipped my body is to fight off infection now that I’m older? Please don’t assume that just because your body is failing you that my body is going to start failing me.”
She didn’t take it well. She’s a sweet woman who probably didn’t deserve my vitriol, but perhaps she’ll think twice before writing me off again.