I am starting to feel my age. There is no point denying that obvious reduction in physical ability, together with my poor eyesight. I tried to assemble a small trike for my step-grandson today, and I was defeated by the tiny print on the instructions, even with my strongest glasses on.
I suppose that I could just give up, but I am reluctant to do that. I still managed almost three hours walking with Ollie today, despite the unseasonal heat, and a late night. It is all too easy to become frustrated with things like instruction leaflets, and attempting tasks when you are surprised to feel tired. Your instinct is to push on, to overcome the obstacles, but that is easier said than done.
It feels like my portrait in the attic (Dorian Grey) has been made flesh, and all my past sins and follies have caught up with me, at long last. Small jobs are ridiculously tiring. Patience is at a premium, and any effort seems like trying to plough through oil. When I was much younger, I had no idea that this would eventually happen. In that respect, this has all come as a surprise. And an unpleasant one at that.
Although my brain tells me otherwise, my body states firmly that I am an older man. I cannot do the things that I was used to doing with ease, and simple tasks appear to be insurmountable. If I believed that I was fit and capable, I was very wrong. In the middle ages, this would seem to be a great age. In modern times, it is almost disregarded, and I am considered to have a good twenty years ahead of me. My body and functions disagree though, and as a result, I feel my age intensely.
Perhaps my time has been and gone. My span exhausted, but nobody told the rest of me. Either way, there seems to be little else that I can contribute, nothing that I can see or do. My body is telling me that enough is enough. I am done.
I am officially an older man.