Fighting the Good Fight

I have struggled with depression through most of my kidlets' lifetimes. Sometimes the depression wins. However, since the tweaking of my medications, I have felt more like a human being and less like a puddle of anxious goo. But I lost a LOT of years to depression, and I feel like I should get them back.

But I don't want them to be tacked onto the end of my life--however old I get to be, there is a limit to how long I want to hang on, and the extra seven years might not actually be anything I want at that point. I know at least two women who lived far longer than they cared to, and every day was just a disappointment that they were still here.

I want my seven years back NOW. So, I decided that I would just advance my birthdate by seven years. This gives me the advantage of being back in my mid-30s, plus now I'm the youngest of my siblings instead of the oldest.

However, it appears that you can't cheat the calendar. I was sitting at the dinner table a while ago, and Mr. Sweetie became concerned about the expression on my face. I looked unhappy, or dour, or depressed--none of which I felt.

That is when I realized that, despite my entitlement to being younger, despite my lack of wrinkles, despite the fact that once every month I get a mother of a zit to announce my period--I am not, in fact, younger. Actually, it appears that in the battle against aging, gravity is now winning.

This would be really depressing, except that the alternative is not any better. Damn gravity.