Ninety-Nine for a Moment

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll feel the tears well as I pull into a parking spot in the N lot, Five for Fighting lilting through the car. Measuring the weight of my hundred years of decisions, wondering if I invested the past thirty Christmases as a foundation of stability or hoarded them in stinginess—doling out love where it was easiest to share. I’m 57 for a moment. Past halftime. Suddenly wise?

I’ll ruminate as one reviewing life through a dragon fly kaleidoscope. Considering whether I’ve made a litany of decisions in the best possible ways--even though I don’t believe in BEST possible ways anymore. (or dream jobs or soul mates or perfection or…). At the office, I’ll walk into the bathroom and pass the toilet stall that didn’t flush properly—pause, eww…then I enter and flush. Rather than walking by—as I did for years--I feel responsible to solve this small problem. Something has changed. I believe in decision points, contributing where I can, commitment, compatibility… and I know that sometimes good enough is a life well lived. Another blink of an eye…the sun is getting high…I’m moving on.

Today.

But today in the weight room of the Y, I catch a glimpse of a woman shuttled toward the exercise equipment in a wheelchair by her willing (but restless? embarrassed? supportive? impatient?) partner. She looks about my age and resembles a former colleague. The asymmetry in her gait suggests a stroke. I squat, lunge, complete sets of curls and presses—simultaneously frustrated with my visceral abdominal fat, stung with the reality of my mortality, and grateful to build strength and balance without a crisis forcing my hand.

I’m dying for just another moment.

Do I have a hundred years to live?   

• Janet