As night settles around me. I feel rueful.

Here I am in the opening days of the first full calendar year of my seventh decade.  I truly did not expect to be cruising towards 61.  Oh, sure.  I promised my son that I’d live to be 103.  But did I expect to have to carry out that commitment?  Probably not.  I kept getting prognoses from dour physicians that they just thought I would wear out.

I don’t have cancer, ALS, MS, Parkinson’s, or HIV.  I have a heart condition that is considered more of an aggravation than anything else.  I have a bunch of weird diseases that keep nibbling away at one system or another.  Propioception, ambulation, hearing, sight.  Just enough erosion to be cussedly inconvenient without actually taking me down.

Annoying, right?  Wasn’t it Yossarian who wouldn’t get well enough to be released nor sick enough to treat?

But I’m not complaining.  It’s the fourth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining and I feel pretty damn good about it.  Life continues.