History means “finding out” from the Greek historia. I’ve found out my former twenty-something body is history. I’ve found out my hair follicles are packing up and abandoning my scalp in alarming numbers. I should be bald by morning. I’ve found out my upper eyelids are sagging, trying to mate with my lower eyelids for no good reason. I’ll be blind if they hookup.
I’ve found out my nasal passages are collapsing and I snore loud enough to wake the dog, the dead, and God. I’ve found out my once well-formed lips are kissing my esophagus. I can no longer find my upper lip to apply lipstick.
I’ve found out my perky girls have taken a trip south of the border, below my knees.
All I have to do is lift my skirt to slip on my bra. My sight and hearing are gradually joining the ranks of history. Who are you? What did you say? I’ve found out all my fat cells are attending a convention in a conference center called The Abdomen, nicknamed The Belly. Breakout rooms are in my butt, lovingly referred to as the two lower cheeks.
I’ve found out the sensation in my lower legs is history, appropriately filed under “N” for “Neuropathy” in the Library of Congress. Doctors tell me my hips and knees are okay, but someday they’ll be history, replaced with titanium parts that will eventually be found rattling around in my cremains. Sadly, my bladder muscles are history, now requiring me to plan every journey from toilet location to toilet location. My tonsils, gallbladder, appendix, uterus, and ovaries are history, leaving me one by one, presumably to visit the annals of history wherever the hell that is. I’m almost empty inside. I’m caving in outside. And as for having sex? That is ancient history.