These past few months has been filled with doctor’s appointments.  This week alone has been one endless waiting room hang out.  So far this week I’ve had three for me, two for the new puppy and one for my youngest son. I was supposed to have another tomorrow and then on Monday both boys see the dentist, I’ve decided to stop the madness.  Just for now.  We can wait a couple more weeks before returning to our life as medical lab rabs.

You see I need a break as I’m feeling vulnerable now, and just a tad defensive.

You see, it’s about my ‘age’.

If one more medical professional refers to me and says in the same breath, ‘older’, ‘declining’, and ‘at your age’, I will kick him. I may not be twenty, but I am not older, declining, or at your age. And for the doctor on Monday and Tuesday who made me feel like an old horse with nothing ahead of her but the glue factory—watch it, buster. I might not be able to kick my leg as high as I once did, but I can still kick hard. I was a dancer once upon a time. And I lift weights.

Hmph. Old Bess, indeed.

My legal name is Elizabeth Jane so I could become Betsy Jane, or…Bess…but not Old Bess. The eye doctor today modified by contact prescription but said I don’t need reading glasses (yet). The doctor on Tuesday was greatly surprised by the excellent test results of some blood work. Cholesterol’s good. Blood pressure’s low. Everything’s wonderful. Except for my mood.

I am not old. Forty (something)  is not old. And I’m not even forty (something) anyway. I’m…younger. Well, okay, in my own universe I am younger and that’s what matters. Get rid of all the chronological age crap and base your true age on how you feel and what you’re able to do.

And I’m able to kick a lot of doctors butts. So there. Take that.

But, oh!  Wait, please move that box so I don’t fall and break a hip.

Thank you, sonny. I appreciate that.