Oh, it's getting better. But the other day (Monday) I was a mess. Couldn't even cart my own bookbag down the hall. Had to have a kid do it. A big strong kid. Thanks, Eric. While I took little baby steps or little old man steps. And look. The whole thing has got me writing fragments. Bits and pieces. Because that's how I've been feeling. But. Oh, it's getting better. Today I could carry my own bookbag.

This is the result of about one and a half years of next to no exercise. A body will forgive only so much. So it's time to start doing something. I'm hoping it's not too late, that I haven't crossed some invisible but absolute line into geezerville. There must be such a line because the old ones that we know have not always been there on the far side of it. Once they were young. We have first-hand experience or pictures to prove it. Age and infirmity must be achieved. But it may be less of a line than a gray zone into which one passes gradually, mindlessly, while the shadows grow thicker.

I would like right now to scamper around the track for a few miles, but I know that would be as foolish as doing nothing. This mess that I've become must be slowly but persistently sorted, coaxed and convinced.