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The Thing They Don’t Tell You About Growing Old

I’ve been worrying about the wrong thing all this time.

I laid in bed and stared at the light. The dog wanted to snuggle, but I couldn’t lift a hand. I was wearing my reading glasses, but I couldn’t reach for my kindle.

I just stared at the light.

I was tired.

Not that it had been an especially hard day — it had just been a day that had thrown a few things off-kilter, where a bunch of events had conspired to take all my spoons.

Worse, it had become evident that my partner and I were out of the bubble. For the past few years, for the first time in both of our lives, we’d had secure housing, plenty of money for the bills, and work that was meaningful, challenging, and fun.

Now we were sleeping on a mattress on the floor because our house has been sold and we need to move again. As I lay there, I didn’t know where we would go. I knew that my bank account was anemic from a job transition, and going to be more so because of moving costs.

I realized that I’d been worried about the wrong thing for years.

I used to worry that I’d lose my edge.