Could it really be that simple?
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I have strived to be healthy, but life had other plans, beginning with severe migraines decades ago. A brilliant neurologist put me on a “cocktail” of medications more than two decades ago to tamp those down. Those account for three of the bottles in the photo and I take those every evening.

While dealing with those migraines, a masseuse mentioned to me that I was a prime candidate for bone loss and asked if I’d ever had my bone density checked. I had not at the time, but asked my internist about it, was checked and already had osteopenia (I am now in full-fledged osteoporosis), so began taking medication for it, which helped, but now I take daily calcium (the big bottle) and an additionally prescribed potassium supplement.

More than 40 years ago, I had extremely mild allergies, but living inside our home during renovation more than two decades ago, tipped me over into a real allergic reaction to dust (as well as some pollens), so I take Singulair on a daily basis as well, and can no longer tolerate being on a construction site. Though I’ve been diagnosed with very mild asthma, I’ll take a puff or two of an inhaler for chorus practice or a concert to insure I have maximum lung capacity, as it decreases as we ages.

For some reason, over the past eight years, I’ve been plagued by styes in my eyelids (I’ve had severe dry eye for more than 30 years), which require a lot of hot compresses, but also antibiotic eye drops and pills. I’ve had two in different eyes since February. This time, my doctor has put me on a low dose of doxycycline for three months to try to prevent any further attacks, but now I must be careful in the sun, as I am very susceptible to sunburn. Always something, right?

The indignities of aging are hitting home with increasing frequency these days. I had ankle surgery in late January, which went smoothly. The joint was fine, but loads of inflammation was discovered in the capsule around the joint so I will see a rheumatologist in October to try and discover why. I took none of the prescribed pain-killers, but the recovery has taken longer than I anticipated. Our bodies do not snap back as quickly as they once did. I must learn patience and acceptance but I still want to dance at my 50th Brandeis reunion in September.

Sometimes the fences that need mending exist right within the family.
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Right, friendships. Those things we forge in the furnace of youth, fueled by shared baseball card collections and a desperate need for someone to understand our Nirvana obsession. But then, like a dodgy takeout of Indian curry, they often leave a sour aftertaste – only this time lasting far into adulthood.

Why? Well, let’s be honest. People change. Me, once the resident class clown, was later a beige-wearing computer professional with a crippling fear of roller-coasters. My closest friend, the quiet one who preferred bugs and beetles to The Beatles and rock n’ roll, is now a tattooed thrill-seeker base-jumping off mountains and out of airplanes. Suddenly, our weekends spent building pillow forts in my parents’ basement seem about as relevant as dial-up internet.

Then there are the arguments. The epic falling outs over who ate the last slice of pizza (looking at you, Robert) or that whole “borrowing my Kurt Cobain t-shirt and then mysteriously shrinking it in the washer” debacle. (“Never forgive, never forget”.) Suddenly, talking to your once-best bud feels like trying to have a philosophical discussion with a particularly stubborn pigeon (no offense Steven).

Now, some of you might be thinking, “But Kevin, what about the power of forgiveness? Of patching things up?” To which I say “bless your kind little hearts”. Have you ever tried to mend a ripped pair of jeans with duct tape? It looks desperate, don’t it? The same goes for fractured friendships. Sure, you can give or accept an apology (though let’s be honest, most apologies sound suspiciously like justifications these days), but the underlying resentment will always be there, like that rogue sequin still clinging to the bottom of your sneaker.

The worst part? Even if you manage to overcome your differences, the conversation will likely be as thrilling as watching paint dry. You’ll dredge up those tired old anecdotes (“Remember that time we…”), desperately trying to recapture a spark that has long since fizzled out. It’ll be like watching a particularly uninspired re-boot of a classic A Team episode.

Of course, there’s always the chance you’ll genuinely reconnect. Maybe you’ll discover a shared love of beige cardigans and sensible shoes? Maybe Robert finally fesses up to the pizza theft (justice!). But let’s be real, the odds are about as good as winning the lottery or being struck by lightning.

So, what’s the point? Here’s the thing: sometimes, letting go is the most mature option. Think of it like clearing out your wardrobe. You wouldn’t keep those neon green parachute pants from the 80s, would you? (Although, to be fair, they might be making a comeback – fashion is a fickle beast.)

Instead I suggest we focus on the good times. The laughter, the shared secrets, the time you accidentally set fire to Robert’s eyebrows while passing him a lit joint (oops). Cherish those memories, then move on. There’s a whole world of potential new friends out there, some of whom might even appreciate my questionable taste in music. Unless, of course, they try to borrow my latest almost new Nirvana t-shirt – then all bets are off.

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