Remember how when you were 19 you could hop in a car and drive for 16 hours and arrive at your desination feeling maybe slightly tired and jazzed from too many soft drinks and fast food, but generally okay?

20 years later and hopping on a plane for a quick visit to ailing parents (it used to be a desperate need to be on a beach, or shopping that would make me drop everything and go, but no more) turned into a month long ordeal involving swollen ankles, thrombophlebitis (which includes steroids, pain killers and a heating pad), an aching back, and really most of the time wanting to be back home, not that said parents aren’t good company, but more that I’ve become a creature of habit and I like my habits.  In other words, I’m getting old.

Not that I’m complaining about getting old.

Okay wait yes I’m complaining about getting old.

I was prepared for the wrinkles and the grey hair, but I suppose I always thought that life would be fabulous.  Or if life wasn’t fabulous, I certainly thought I would be.  Maybe once the cloud of jetlag lifts, I’ll be able to figure out what the hell happened.

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