Carole Marshall

It was there just yesterday, saw it with my own eyes. Pretty sure it was yesterday, but time can get away from me if I don’t pay attention. Time notwithstanding, the important point is it was there and now it’s gone, and the dilemma is turning into quite a mystery. Where is the body?

Perhaps it will help jog my memory if I think about where I last saw it. Was it indoors or outside? Remembering weather conditions might help — warm, cold, sunny, rain? What about landscape? Was the body in a city environment, in an open meadow, on the beach, along a woodsy trail? There’s time of day to consider as well — early morning light or evening dusk?

And then there’s the matter of clothing. Could have been leggings and a sweatshirt, maybe shorts with a tank top. Was the mystery outfit sweatpants and long or short-sleeve shirt?  How about a jacket or noticeable gear like a fanny pack or backpack, sunglasses, or a hat of some kind?

To clear my head and sort out this conundrum, I go for my daily walk. Plodding along at an annoyingly slow pace to accommodate arthritic knees, the facts begin to fall into place. The picture comes into focus.

The body was a female, a toned young gal, hair tied back in a long ponytail. Shorts, I remember black shorts and a long sleeve shirt with a logo, a picture of a runner with a date underneath. There were expensive running shoes on her feet. I knew they were pricey; I’d once owned a pair. Her baseball cap, pulled low over her eyes, had the same runner logo as the shirt. She wore sunglasses and held a half-full water bottle.

The longer I walk the more I begin to see her in varying scenes. One minute she’s on a beach, the next on a trail thick with pines. I see her in a rainy city and on a snowy country road behind a snowplow. The longer I walk, the more the fog lifts.

The missing gal was an avid runner. Not deterred by environment or time of day, she ran in dark or light, city or country, hot or cold. Snowstorms put her slogging behind plows, and summer heat meant carrying water as well as leaving extra bottles along the long route. Her body was slim, taut, and youthful.

So, here I am out for my usual exercise. It’s a cold late winter day and I’m bundled up in wool hat, down jacket, scarf around my neck and over my mouth, gloves on my hands. My heavy socks and orthotic shoes aren’t doing much for my frozen, achy feet. There are patches of ice here and there, and my walking stick is a blessing. I faithfully move along as best as the arthritis allows, knowing there really isn’t any mystery to the missing body.

The answer is in the swift passing of years, the false assumption of forever. “I will exercise like this till I’m ninety,” said one of my running partners. “I’ll run my daily six miles, eat whatever I want, stay svelte and spry,” said this gal who today bumbles along one step at a time, one day at a time, one cookie at a time while considering donating all size 8 clothing.

In truth, I am grateful and happy and do my best to handle life with dignity, grace, and humor. Aging is a truly appreciated gift and I work daily to balance my Libra scales in that direction. At the same time, I lament the reality of getting old when every now and then there’s a flash of memory. That young, thin, fit runner streaks by and I stand a little straighter, walk a bit faster, decide I’ll hang on to those tiny running clothes a little longer. And through a tad of whining and grumbling, as if a snap of my fingers will turn back the years and produce the fantasy, I feel compelled to ask the same nagging question. Where is the body?

Working hard on those sometimes elusive good spirits.

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. She’s had stories published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and has written two novels and one fitness book. She is working on aging in good spirits. Contact her at cmkstudio2@gmail.com.