Often, I will be around my mother, or father, and they will have a doctors visit, or stand and have a crick, and exclaim, with a wry smile, “Boy, it sucks to get old.” And I have smiled, and thought, “sure, for you….. “. But now I am thinking, no, no, it does NOT suck to get old. I am consumed with fantasies about it….. Picturing myself in a AARP commercial…. Dutifully eating fiber…. Gracefully going grey…. Being one of those “active seniors” that all the Florida resorts try to attract… Having my home health aide still with me….. Keeping up with my adult daughter through whatever social media she allows me to be privy to…. Hold old is that??? 55? Is that old? Is the question relative? Is that old for me…. When at 43 I have stage 4 cancer? Or, do I still judge from the norm…. When my grams is 93 and a pistol….. My family seems to all get old…. Into their 80’s at least….. I think, not me…. I’m not making 90….. And I can get my head around that, I’m pretty sure I can, at least…. But, how long? Do I keep contributing to my deferred comp…. Or should I just put all that into a college fund…. I just don’t know… And I am somewhat paralyzed with the uncertainty. I need to exercise, and lose weight, and eat better, and make these basic changes…. However, don’t these basic changes signify a commitment of some sort to knowing that those changes are meaningful…. Because someone told me that, “my numbers are good…. All the numbers are in my favor.” What numbers? I asked….. Any numbers beyond the basic 5 years? No… No…. But all the five year studies say I have an 80% chance of surviving…. Which is great, I will certainly take it… But, am I greedy to want a solid 20? Maybe 30? Greedy…. Maybe…. I think my “carrying on”…. In a way that requires changes and “positive living”…. Requires me to almost take a religious leap of faith…. Not religious in believing in god…. No….. Not that…. But a religious fervor of faith in “surviving.” Do I believe? Can I get an amen?! Can I get a gospel choir and a hallelujah! Because I can not seem to stop drinking or eating crap or filling my coffee with aspartame and steadily exceeding my wardrobe without some fucking cancer survivor god coming on down here and giving me my twenty. I fucking deserve it. But, maybe that’s the point… What the fuck do I really deserve, why shouldn’t I take my good numbers and run with it…. Run…. Why shouldn’t I run….. Run…… Why can’t I just run….. When has running ever failed me…. Why don’t I just run….. God, I wish I could run again…. I want to run again…. I want to run again and have my daughter see my run…. Survivorship god…. I pray to you, if I eat better, and exercise, not be a drunk, and believe…. Will you let me run again? Can we have this simple agreement? Ok, survivorship god…. Here’s my deal…. I will pray footsteps and cardio exercise, I will say Hail Marys of kale and quinoa, and I will kneel at night in yogaistic devotion….. For the promised land of running. And I will run as long. As. I. Can.