Ten years ago I turned 38 years old. Today I turned 48.
Ten years ago I ran four miles by the beach three times a week. Today it takes me seventy-five seconds to get out of the car with my artificial hip.
Ten years ago I read the small print of “Crime and Punishment” in a paperback by the sunlight of a Florida afternoon. Today I buy only hardbacks like “Black Swans” in large print and use my reading glasses.
Ten years ago I stripped naked and looked down. Not only did I see my penis and my toes, but I also saw my testicles and my ankles. Today I have to use a mirror to see those beloved jewels.
Ten years ago my back had the soft white skin and galaxy of freckles of a red-headed Irishman. Today I’ve got a purplish scar from skin cancer surgery that looks like Jupiter’s red spot.
Ten years ago I had a hard time fitting my thick red hair under a baseball cap. Today my crown gets sunburned and the skin up there peels if I don’t wear the baseball cap.
Ten years ago I borrowed money from my parents to buy furniture for my house and I took three or four years to pay them back. Today I wipe the drool from my mother’s stroke-disabled chin and I remind my father how to turn the stove on to 350 degrees and that he’s supposed to go to church on Sundays.
Ten years ago I looked at myself and saw the glass half full. Today I look at myself and realize it’s half empty. That makes every day all the more precious.
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