Barbie and Me and the Grain Elevators

Walking down the hall at work today, a young "20-something" with the body of a Barbie Doll who was wearing a short, swishy but ass-hugging skirt held a door open for me and urged me to pass through. As she held the door and I walked through, I couldn't help but notice, mostly because of the mouth-watering appetite-producing aroma, the plate of food she held in her free hand. Piled on top of her 1/2 lb. cheeseburger with the works, were the yummiest looking salty, greasy golden brown french fries I've seen in some time. At my age, I really don't eat many french fries these day cause they have a way of becoming a permanent part of my stomach, ass, thighs and arms. Anyway, the fries looked and smelled better then any food has a right to. As I passed by Anorexic Annie, who was posing as Bulimic Betty - or maybe I have that wrong - maybe she was Bulimic Betty posing as Anorexic Annie - I couldn't help but wonder if she saw me as old. Was she holding that door open for me because she was respecting her elders? Did she view me as so broken down and decrepit that she believed me incapable of holding my own door open? After all, both my hands were free. Shouldn't it have been me who held the door for her? She did have her hands - or at least one of her hands - full of food, so it would have seemed more appropriate for me to hold the door for her. But that didn't happen and I can't help but to wonder why. In my head, I'm "20-something" too. Always have been, always will be. But my body must be some other age. Technically, I think it's 51 - or so I'm told. Doesn't happen often, but ever once in awhile I have this thought about age. Usually prompted by something someone else does or says. Today was one of those days. The action of another person made me have a thought. A thought that I'm not immortal. I am aging. My days on this planet are limited - more so now then ever before. Even as I write this, I've lost time and am closer to death then I was a second ago. Ugh. I remember starting with my company 25 years ago. Young and alive with no sense of time or age at all. Well at least not where I was concerned. I saw age only in others - people older then myself. And I still do that. Many of the folks who worked for my company the day I started are still there. And they are still older then me. So most of the time, I see age only when I'm in the company of one of them. Now it's happening. There are more "20-somethings" then there are "50-somethings" in my office, and it's causing me to become more and more aware that time is not on my side. My boobs are sagging, my skin is losing elasticity, I'm developing a turkey neck, the color of my eyes are dulling, I have age spots on my hands that darken with each passing year, my bladder is weaker causing me to have to pee all the time, I don't sleep soundly at night - I'm typically up 2 or 3 times a night, my bones are starting to pain me on a regular - frequent - basis, my memory is starting to fail me, and now, for the first time ever, I question who I am. I don't really know. How strange. If you had asked me at 21 who I was, I could have told you in a heartbeat! And now at 51, I really don't know. I don't know from where I came and I don't know where I'm going. And most of the time, I don't know what I'm doing or why. Ugh! Driving home from work tonight, I saw it. Something I never thought I'd see. They - whoever "they" are - have started tearing down my childhood. Ok, ok, not my childhood exactly - but something from my childhood. I was born in the quaint lil town of North Kansas City in a small area hospital. Just down the street were grain elevators. Each time I pass through North Kansas City, I see those grain elevators and they bring back all kinds of memories. Some sad, but most are good. They are memories mostly of my youth - fun times, good times - back in the day when I played and laughed and grew boobs and knew exactly who I was and where I was going. And today on my way home, the grain elevators were gone. Demolished. Torn down. Fallen into a big ol’ heap of rubble. I almost cried. As goes the grain elevators, so go I. Maybe not today, but soon.