A delicate rose scent wafts through the air.  It dances with the soothing talcum powder smell of little babies.  Spring is wonderful.  Less so is my jog – where I am more enthralled by the fragrances of my shampoo and deodorant, than by the prospect of speeding up.  After a certain age, exercise is not just beneficial, but mandatory – unless you are happy about consistent and unforgiving weight gain.

If creeping pounds are unappealing, and you hate to move about, then eating sensibly is also an option.  I’m not referring to fasting, pureeing bacon sandwiches, or juicing a pineapple with some kerosene, but a reasonable approach to nutrition.  Like eating foods that come naturally in different colors (not tinted in an agricultural salon), in small portions, throughout the day.  Easy and practical.  Until you realize cake is not one of the recommended colors.

So for me, it’s back to sweating.  Each morning, I pry open my eyelids, turn my stiff head to the left and assess the state of the union.  Sufficient light to prevent mugging.  Not enough to necessitate sunblock.  Swaying leaves mean a long-sleeve shirt.   Or maybe pants.  I never get that decision right.  When I feel an agitated ankle tendon I sit up.  Maybe it’s a hamstring; I am not sure I know the difference.  I do know I have to find that disgusting absorbent hairband, as today is not a hair-washing day.

I start to meticulously measure out the water, level out the scoops of finely ground Puerto Rican beans, and warm up the four precise ounces of milk; as the coffee starts to bubble, I reminisce about the morning routines of my youth.  Sleeping in past the last possible minute and then heading into an inappropriately long shower; avoiding clothing dilemmas, by choosing black sweaters over black pants, with black shoes – all to the soundtrack of Ace of Base, which I somehow find the time to insert into the CD player.  Walking two feet out of my apartment directly into an Au Bon Pain/Urban Pain for a large mocha blast, whipped cream please, and a side of whichever muffin looks the largest.  That’s easing into a day.

But life is better now.  Really.  My cholesterol is low.  My heart rate compares to a professional athlete’s, according to my Emergency room visit doctor. I can shamelessly wear a halter top (if I weren’t mortified at the thought).  And I do sleep in until 8 on Sundays.  This is 29, again.