Poems of Doubtful Hope

"35 is a wild age" I thought to myself this morning As I applied Rogaine to my bald spot and noticed pimples on my forehead.  My joints ache and my body creaks But my beard is still pre-pubescently thin.  I take vitamins and an iron supplement,  But spaghettios with meatballs still sounds like a great lunch.  I'm in charge of two human lives who trust me completely But I still want my wife to kiss my boo-boos and baby me when I'm sick.  A mortgage, a car loan, and a comic book collection. Yard work, house work, and novelty slippers.  Frustrated when they rearrange the grocery store, Giddy and gleeful when looking around the LEGO store.  Ultimately age is just a number,  But things are oddly liminal at 35. 

I'd rather be whole than brave.  I'd rather be proud of where I am than how far I've come.  I know it's impressive that I keep trudging along even under all this weight,  But I'd give all this strength up if someone was willing to lighten the load.  As the waves rock the boat and the wind howls in the dark,  I think once again about abandoning ship,  Finding a new safe harbor to shelter and heal,  But I'm not on the ship alone and I can't leave them behind.  So, I struggle to my feet while the ref counts to nine. I put my gloves up for another beating.  Odds are tomorrow will find me bloodied and bruised,  But I will still be breathing.