One evening this fall, eating a MOP in our room while recovering from a five or six hour drive, I will turn forty. Though I’ve taken pretty good care of myself (I don’t drink, I’ve never smoked or taken recreational drugs, I don’t eat as badly as I could, and I exercise a bit), I could probably have taken better care of myself (I could certainly weigh less), and all at once my body seems to be showing its age. Maybe it’s because the heat and humidity of summer has descended on New York all at once, and I’m trying to deal with that while dealing with a cold. I just feel so worn out.
Or maybe it’s because I have an inguinal hernia or two and a cholesteatoma in one of my ears. Neither of these are even slightly serious, but together they mean that I’ll spend the summer being poked and prodded by doctors. Really I’m just happy to have these, especially the ear (which has been bothering me without being diagnosed for nearly five years) fixed, but I wish this would have come up during the winter instead.
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