I feel fragile.
Not a complimentary word.
Women for centuries have been accused of being fragile.
Having vapors. Waiting for the guy on the white horse. Needing to be kissed awake after eating the dreaded apple.
But I’m ok with it.
I feel like I’m in a war against death.
Looking over my shoulder to see if that big rock from Raiders is coming to run me over.
And it is.
This is a horrible time. Horrible virus. Killing a huge number of those it infects. With wild abandon.
You can’t buy your way out of it. You can’t call that one important contact to come and save you. You can’t use your youth or your maturity to make it better. You can’t escape to another country.
It doesn’t matter if you’re red, blue, black, or white. You’re fucked.
So I’m fragile.
I’m in the over sixty, elderly, category. I had long planned to live to be well over 100.
In my mind, I’m in the middle of my life.
I have a young daughter. Young grandchildren. Building my writing career. Playing with my husband. Forever dieting. Making mistakes. Building a house. Planning trips. Cleaning my closet. Loving my friends. Learning to cook. Not feeling guilty.
I am not ready to die.
So, yes, I am fragile.