Not one thing for me to swallow, inject, insert or apply
When I was thirty-something, I awoke each morning, climbed out of bed, and jogged past a kitchen counter that held my daily dose of undisciplined indulgence. Like a car with a few years on it, everything still worked pretty good, but not perfect. There was some maintenance required, but I didn't take the time or make the effort. I still had sufficient power under the hood, and even though I was rough on my body, chassis, engine and transmission, I spent little time in the repair shop. It seemed that whatever I did or did not do did not matter; I was still invincible.
When I was sixty-something, I carefully eased myself out of bed and slowly shuffled into the kitchen. There, on the counter all lined up and standing at attention waiting for me, were a long line of daily doses of consequences for having lived six decades ignoring the maintenance manual that came with me. Like an older model car with little effort given throughout the years to required care, everything about me (or so it seemed) was needing repair. My body, chassis, engine and transmission were now spending a lot of time in the shop. It seems that whatever I did or did not do really did matter after all.
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