I’m 32 today and I feel it. I’ve been listening to my body. Not in a way where I see the hues of my chakras running from the top of my head down my spine - like that chart of a man sitting “Indian style”, a term I’m sure we’re no longer supposed to use. Ah, another sign of aging. Remember when we used to say (fill in the blank)
I’ve been getting acupuncture and cupping treatments every week for the greater half of the year. My ‘healer’ as they like to be addressed as, deservedly so, has taught me a lot about how the body is interconnected. How a pain in my hip can be relieved from a pressure point in my ear. I had hamstring tendonitis from the NYC marathon this past weekend. No, I didn’t run the marathon. I was supporting a friend and after 14 miles of walking, cutting through crowds, and light jogging - woke up and couldn’t bend my leg or put pressure on it. That lasted for 4 days. My doctor basically told me aging was the cause and recommended popping Advil, icing, applying heat, and my theragun, which I used while watching ‘The Penguin.’
That’s 32 - but I’m happy about it. I love new experiences, good or bad. I used to romanticize the 27 Club, but dying of an overdose would have robbed me of the daily natural decay. I played basketball last night. I’m fundamentally better because I have to be. Playing above the rim is no longer an option. Aging is physical. It’s a clock that once ticked silently, but now ticks like a Swatch watch.
This morning, I limped down my apartment's uneven pre-war stairs to do a load of laundry. I chopped off my beard in between switching cycles while listening to Ethiopian Jazz and FaceTiming my parents. They’re happier about my birthday than I am. Their baby getting older is a totem of their longevity. I mute myself and fold laundry as my mom recites memories. These stories are our family's legacy. I’ve been told the same ones for years. Younger me would cut my parents off or finish them in a sarcastic tone. Now, I let them talk through it. Listening for a new detail they may have added this time around. How my dad played pickup basketball with ‘fatback.’ “He could never play organized ball because of his temper,” my dad says with a sigh - what could have been. It’s my role as a son to make sure these stories live on. To carry the family saga from my Jidou’s family in the northern mountains of Baskinta, Lebanon and my great grandmother’s sharecropper roots.
Here’s to the next 365.