I played soccer throughout my childhood and for a brief stint in college. Into adulthood, I stopped playing soccer, but I ran regularly as a way to stay active. Because of this, I would sometimes get complimented about my legs. My legs had good muscle tone and were well defined. My veins usually stood out and as I walked and moved about, you could see the inner machinations. Over the years, as my hair greyed, my eyesight withered, and my belly grew, my legs remained relatively youthful. The creeping of old age on the rest of my body was like a slow-moving virus but my lower appendages had been spared. This year, it became clear that those qualities I had once retained had disappeared. The virus had taken over the entire body.
Looking down at my legs, they are swollen with water retention, most likely from some failing organ or another. It was once very clear where my legs ended and my feet began, but now they are monolithic slabs that look stiff and unmovable. The ankles have all but disappeared from distinction of the rest of my legs. Tiny spider veins have populated around the bloated ankles and my heels creating a pattern of purple and blue. My toenails are cracked, mis-colored and long. They are now further away and harder to reach than they once were, so they get neglected. Dark splotches on my lower legs appear and disappear, relocating in slightly different locations at different times. My skin is typically dry, but now, it is to the extreme. Red, itchy patches have developed from above my ankle to my inner thigh. I am constantly scratching my legs. At all times throughout the day. The scratching at these unsightly areas is so much that I begin to bleed, and scabs develop.
I still run, but less often and not for as long of distance. Getting back into shape, after a pause, takes longer now and I feel like I am working much harder to stay in shape than I ever have before. I used to never even think about being old; that whole “age is just a number thing.” Those days are long gone now. There came a day when the reality became clear. I saw myself through others’ eyes. My perception of myself then was a bit askew. I was fooling myself. I know better now. I am old. The virus had completely taken over. There is a finality in this realization, a contentedness. There are no illusions.
The difference between being young and being old is slight, but noticeable. The difference is the inch you lose in your height from the slouch in your back. This occurs from the weight of time slowly pushing you down to the earth. Another side effect of the virus. This side effect continues until you can no longer raise your head off the ground.
Standing up straight: young. Standing normal (slouched): old. Young. Old.
This virus I speak of, for some reason, makes me think of the stages of life of the butterfly. When the butterfly becomes an adult, it emerges from this vessel, the pupa, unfolding and outstretching its colorful wings. Once the blood begins flowing to the wings, the butterfly can fly away and look for food and a mate. Look for the adventures of life! I imagine this virus of old age as a reverse metamorphosis. The colorful, vital adult slowly recedes back into a monochromatic vessel where the virus can take over, slowly draining it of flowing blood and life.
I now stand slouched. My legs should be covered from public view.
I am old.
