Who is this strange person I find within myself? Uninvited, unwelcome, turning me from strong and capable to weak and wimpy? From young and vigorous to old and doddering? Who is this imposter?
Who gave her permission to turn my spry step to a stumble, my firm grasp to a grab, my eye from keen to dim?
Why was there no warning, no “use before” date, no cautionary label on the back of my neck? Nothing to let me know what lay ahead? Shouldn’t there at least have been a maintenance manual?
Is it too late to trudge off to the Body Shop for a tune-up? Are the wrinkles too embedded? The chin too far descended, having slid from double to triple? Why is that crone in my mirror shaking her head so sadly?
And what are all these accessories? The smart purse now a tote, the elegant heels now sensible, the trifocals, the detachable teeth, the hearing aids that neither hear nor aid, the cane, the body parts guaranteed to set off alarms in any airport?
Is it all to late?
And why am I surprised?