Young

Nowadays in the mornings I wake up feeling about as fresh as a shriveled up tomato forgotten at the bottom of a fruit bowl.

At 6am (when G wakes up) I hoist myself out of bed with a grumble. My lead feet sink into the hardwood floor as I trudge to the kitchen resembling a ninety-year-old hunched over her walker.

Shuffle shuffle shuffle.

I stare blankly around the kitchen trying to remember what I'm doing there. Oh yes, milk. Milk for G. Where's the milk? Where are the cups? 48 seconds in the microwave takes so long I can watch the sun rise.

What am I thinking?
That I'm old? That I'm tired?
If I feel like this now, how will I feel when I'm 40? 50? 60? Probably not much fresher.

Somehow I need to convince myself that I feel WAY better now than I will at possibly any point later in life. Yes, I'll probably get more sleep and exercise as the kids get older, but in reality I'll never be younger than I am today.

Every morning should be a celebration in how young and energized I feel. I should do a little sunrise dance (after coffee, let's be realistic) and seize the day as any ninety-year-old wishes she could.

A few weeks ago I parted my hair on the other side of my head for the first time ever and effectively hid a large patch of gray that had been spreading virally for the past five years. At that moment I truly felt as if I had won back five years of my life. If only I could re-create that feeling at 6am every morning, then I'd really have something.