The Other Half of the Orange

If we are to believe all of the commercials that promise relief for menopausal symptoms, erectile dysfunction, and aching joints, there is a sweet spot between the juicy naivete of youth and the spare wisdom of old age. Handsome men with salt and pepper hair walk hand in hand on the beach with beautiful older women with trim figures and one or two strategic laugh lines on their otherwise still smooth faces. They travel, climb mountains, form garage bands and can still jumprope, children grown, retirement savings in place. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my life looks nothing like that. My knees ache when I walk up and down steps, I’m shaped more like a barrel then an hourglass, and It’s altogether possible that I’ll be living in a cardboard box when I retire. But the other night, my husband, demonstrating with lime wedges left over from several shots of tequila, said to me, “this half of the orange is me, this half of the orange is you, together we make a whole orange.” So, even though walking on the beach makes my ankle hurt, I’ll do it hand in hand with the other half of my orange. And that’s the sweet spot.


The Other Half of the Orange  carynjune

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