I woke up just after 4 a.m. and instantly noticed my skin was hot and itchy. I used to think it was a seasonal allergy.  I read an article about seasonal allergies, and I have had some common symptoms: runny nose, mild congestion, puffy eyes, and so forth. The problem is that my symptoms seem to persist. They do not ebb and flow with the seasons.

I can’t remember being allergic to pollen when I was young, though I understand one can develop an allergy to something later in life. I’ll even grant that the cause could be something other than pollen. For example, I suspect dog dander, which Lola sheds in spades, is a possible culprit.  In fact, I’m convinced it is at least a contributing factor.

Mind you, it’s not my intention here to offend. I only wish to frankly convey my dawning realization (and growing appreciation) of how age invariably wears us down, bit by bit. And I say this after having personally enjoyed good health my entire life.  Allergy today….  What’s next?

***

Regardless, it is daunting to discover so late in life that one is not invulnerable. And, for that matter, not destined for greatness. From the time you are a boy, you’re taught to feel quite the opposite.

Have you ever heard a kid proclaim their intention to become an astronaut, an explorer, or a pro athlete? As wise adults, we recognize that the number of children destined to fulfill such roles is minute, but we would never think of dissuading them from pursuing their dreams.

***

Even if they aren’t exactly dime-a-dozen, certainly, there is no dearth when it comes to sharing the exploits and accomplishments of extraordinary senior citizens. My personal favorites might be Yuichiro Miura’s conquest of Mt Everest at the age of eighty, and Harry Bernstein, who did not start his writing career until he was ninety-three, and published a memoir at ninety-six. Not quite so rarified, perhaps, but still laudable and undeniably finger-lickin’ good, let us not forget the exploits of one Harland Sanders, who was sixty-five when he started a business called Kentucky Fried Chicken.

So, I’d like to think there’s still hope for me. I refuse to be dissuaded by itchy skin.

However, the truth is that today I can no longer perform certain tasks at a level I once enjoyed.  When it comes to competitive sports, for example, I accept that I’m several steps slower than I was even ten years ago. My reaction times are slower, too.

I have played the guitar for more than six decades, and, while I still greatly enjoy making music, I’m not nearly as dexterous as I once was. I chalk these deficiencies up to the effects of normal aging.

But what are my options? To give up competitive sports in which I’ve participated for my whole life.  To put my guitars in their cases and let them gather dust.  These are not options for me.

Instead, I prefer to adhere to Dylan Thomas’ admonition to “Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.”  Check back in ten or twenty years. I might still be writing for this blog.