Gump and I were talking about age, and it got me thinking about my favourite story about age creeping up on me as I sat unaware.

Just over two years ago was my first Hallowe’en in my new place. Living upstairs from me were four of the nicest young men imaginable. Nice, but not spiritless; they were trouble in the way that young men are, but they were great neighbours and I miss them.

Hallowe’en 2003 fell on a Friday night and it was unseasonably warm.  I dutifully bought candy and put out a pumpkin. So did the boys.  I had beer and cigarettes, and they had beer and cigarettes. We sat on the porch and talked and laughed and drank and smoked and handed out candy and I had a great time.  They made me feel like I was in my early 20s – no great feat as I feel like that most days. 

Eventually, the rush of children turned into a trickle.  Then it dried up all together. At 10:00, the young men and I went our separate ways.  They went to party and I went to bed.  Their evening was just beginning, and mine was over.  Or so I thought.

“Unseasonably warm” on the last day of October in Toronto is not the same as “warm”.  It had been a bit chilly, and a bit damp and I had been sitting on the porch for four hours.

As I lay in bed, my hip started to ache. 

I tried to ignore it.

It got worse.

About half an hour after the young men would have arrived at their party and begun their true celebration of the season, I got out of bed and lowered myself into a hot bath.  I sat there until the water started to cool.  Then I went back to bed.

It’s a long road between feeling 23 and being 23. And that road is hard on your joints.