Time is a thief — but it’s also a jerk

“Are you over the age of 60?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, ‘Are you over the age of 60?’”

“Yes, I heard you the first time. I just can’t believe you asked me that. I turned 52 last week.”

Granted, I was at a surgical center for a procedure reserved for people who say things like, “I walked into this room for a reason, and I can’t remember why.” But this woman checking me in wasn’t a teenager who thinks anyone over 29 should be issued a shawl and a rocking chair.

I know I was there without makeup, but it was 6:30 in the morning, I was 24 hours into a fast, and about to be anesthetized. This is not a time to come in hot with a census question.

I’m in this weird age purgatory. I still feel young, but a quick glance in the mirror has started acting like a brutally honest life coach. My short-term memory now operates like it’s being chased by a Tasmanian devil, but the memory of the time I hit my head in third grade and everyone laughed? Crystal clear. Front row seats to a nightly 2 am replay.

My teenagers keep me young while also reminding me that my time on earth is apparently part of their future home décor. My younger daughter has informed me that when I die, she plans to encase my body in resin and turn me into a coffee table.

So, I’ve got that going for me.

And now I’m at this appointment. The one I put off for years because it felt like crossing into “old people territory,” and also because not eating for 24 hours turns me into someone no one should legally have to interact with.

They leave me alone in a prep room with nothing but my thoughts and wearing what can only be described as an aggressively unflattering napkin with sleeves. My brain should not be left alone unsupervised for this long. Eventually, they knock me out for what feels like five seconds.
When I wake up, the doctor tells me they found a large mass near my appendix.

I’m still foggy, trying to figure out if this is real life or a very dark episode of something on Netflix. He says I’ll need surgery regardless of the biopsy results, which will come in a few days.

And just like that, everything shifts.

I was not ready to die.

I mean, no one ever is, except maybe my grandmother, who treated every birthday like a personal attack from the universe. But I’m 52. I’m finally in a place where I like my life. I like myself. I worked hard to get here, and I ‘m not interested in getting kicked out right after I finally found my seat and ordered a drink.

Those few days waiting for results felt like years. I cried. I spiraled. I ate an irresponsible amount of ice cream as if Kroger was sponsoring my coping plan.

Finally, the call came. It’s benign.

Relief doesn’t even begin to cover it.

So yes, I celebrated the only reasonable way I know how. I bought more Breyer’s mint chocolate chip. Because time may be a thief, and occasionally a full-blown jerk…but for now, it’s still letting me hang around.

And I plan to take up space.

Starting with a 3,000-calorie hot fudge sundae—because if I’m destined to become my daughter’s furniture, I’m not showing up as some dainty little accent piece. I’m going full dining-room table size.

Tracy Winslow is the owner of Low Country Shrimp and Knits - the premier yarn store in the area. When she isn’t stuffing her face with frozen milk and calling it calcium intake, she is building out a new and bigger space for the shop! Come help reduce the amount she has to move by casting on a new obsession or picking up a new fiber hobby. Shrimpandknits.com.