Graying

Every time I see a gray hair, I grow sad. Well, mine. I like seeing my oldest sister's gray head.

It's not that I think I don't look good in gray. I know I rock any look.

It's this: I greatly suspect I won't live to 90, so at 45, I have lived half my life. I don't care about that exactly. But I feel like most of my life has been lived with the equivalent of one hand tied behind my back.

Not knowing my clumsiness was a disability and wouldn't get better stole some years. A diagnosis but no treatment took more years.  And various issues related to FA or wheelchair life robbed me of a few more.

I use such words as stole, took and robbed, but no matter how you look at it, I am to blame. If I hadn't been worried or afraid, I doubt my gray would bother me.