Lucky to be Alive

None of us is perfect; even the most perfect looking people are constantly knocking one or another of their parts out of whack. You see these young kids, invincible, foolhardy, going hang-gliding, surfing, and rollerblading. Rock-climbing, high diving, bungee jumping. I used to be young once too. Sure, they start out in great shape, but when you’re always pushing the envelope, you keep getting wear and tear. They have their aches and pains too, but they don’t go running to the doctor every time they have a hangnail or a dislocated knee. They just have a shot of tequila, strap on a knee brace, and keep shushing and jumping and para-sailing until there’s nothing left of them but a few pieces of dangling cartilage and an active Twitter account.

But when we get older, we know so many horror stories of perfectly healthy people who suddenly bit the dust after getting stung by a mosquito while they were on safari in Africa, or came up with a rare condition that required them to live on a diet of quinoa and acai berries, that we begin to freak out every time we get a stomach ache from eating too much Mexican food. Hypochondria improves with age. But do you really want to wind up as a 95-year-old geezer who’s afraid to eat a fresh peach because he once knew a guy who choked on a pit? You can’t be afraid of life or you ain’t living. So I start out each day going over my body to make sure all of my parts are in working order.

I sit up in bed and think, 'wow, this is pretty amazing. Another day!' I count my fingers and toes and am happy to see that they all appear to be there. Then it’s time to stand up. This can be a huge accomplishment on some mornings, so I’m really proud when I get to the top of my stature and look down and see how far I have managed to lift my head off the ground with my legs. A little wobbly at first, sure, but if I don’t fall over back into the bed, I know it’s going to be another great day.

I start counting my blessings. The sun is still shining, the powers-that-be have managed to get through another night without blowing everything up in their never ending quest for more, more, more. I go to the bathroom and find I still have hot and cold running water in the shower. Guess we must have paid the utility bills on time again. I crack the window so the steamy air escapes out of the bathroom so I can see myself in the mirror. Still there! Damn, this is a good day. The woman in the mirror is smiling. She still has all her teeth! Only a few white hairs on my head.

In the closet, there are dozens of shirts and pants to choose from, many of which still have all their buttons and working zippers and still fit around the waist, even when I sit down. These are not stiff, new, itchy clothes, either; these are time-worn, tried-and-true outfits, softened by years of wash and wear. I no longer feel as though I have to dress up to please anyone else, just to make sure my own butt feels comfortable. What a luxury this is! I slip on a pair of old sandals so my toes can breathe.

I do a thorough accounting of my body. My skin is still doing a terrific job of containing all my blood and guts, my nails are still nice and sharp and able to pick my nose, or zits, or anything else they might like to scratch. My nose has no trouble detecting the odor of my mom's cooking. My tongue can easily detect that the coffee was too hot to drink after the very first sip. My sinuses still appear to be capable of producing huge amounts of phlegm, useful for expelling any foreign substances that may decide to try to invade my respiratory system. I can feel the pains in many parts of my body - my ankles, knees, hips, neck and other joints - which lets me know that my nervous system is still functioning at a very high level. All the pains seem to meld into one fine burn which, along with the coffee, is doing a wonderful job of making me wide awake and ready for a new day. Yes, I feel great! I feel absolutely alive!