Instead, as I type this, my body is ridiculously covered with small, red, itchy pustules. I have the chickenpox, generally considered a childhood disease; this in spite of the fact that recently x-rays and MRI revealed degenerative arthritis in my hips and spine, some of it severe; my eyesight has gotten to the point where I am now one of those older people in the aisle of the grocery story with a box in my hand moving it closer and farther, while moving my head up and down to line up my progressive lenses with the impossibly small type. ( As a side note, I did once see a snowy haired woman with an enormous magnifying glass in her hand roaming the same aisles. This may be my future.); and I seem to have misplaced my short-term memory (Actually, I know exactly where it is. I parked it where many women do: no sleep-and-working-mother-land. At I time when I didn't even realized I was bargaining, I made the barter, and it was done.)
Which brings me to my point. In a month, my husband and I head out to hike the Appalachian Trail.
Memorization is a patient person's game. I am not patient. I forget my address and phone number as soon as I move. To be honest, at this point, I sometimes double check my current address before sending out an envelope to be sure I remembered it correctly. But I think it's time. There is, after all, still a way I hope to walk in the world as I turn 50. I think maybe this long walk is the time to take a few of the things I love in the world and hold them more patiently. This would be a good place to start.