By the end of this summer, I will be 40.

I am having a hard time comprehending how the actual fuck this happened.thoughts

I can remember my childhood better than yesterday, and how I have always associated the smell of wild lavender and cut grass with summer. I can remember seeing my father’s feet on the railing while my brother and I rode our bikes up and down the street.

I could fill pages with all of my childhood memories. They were happy days, the best of my life thus far. I would never trade them, not even for better health and money in my rapidly approaching elder years.

My older friends just scoff at me, you’re still a baby, Mer. I would love to be 40 again.

My retort is always, well I would rather be 25. It’s all subjective, really.

I do plan on growing old gracefully. I won’t get a facelift, be fearful of my varicose veins, or get any sort of injection.

No, I will accept the slow fade of vigor and youth, and await with bated breath for my breasts to hang lo.

How’s about them apples, eh?

I was listening to some music last night, as I am oft to do, and I came across this song. I heard it for the first time, ironically, a few days before my dad passed away. I was waiting in the car for my dad while he was in the store.

It’s always been one of those tunes, that if I hear it on the radio, I won’t reach for the tuner.

The lyrics finally registered with me some 30 years later as I listened.

I wanna go back
And do it all over again
But I can’t go back I know

I wanna go back
Cause I’m feeling so much older
But I can’t go back I know

This brings up the question, would I actually want to start all over again from scratch?

Selectively.

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