Little and Old Me

I noted elsewhere in this space that I went on weight loss drugs mostly because I wanted to give eighty-year-old me the best shot at life and good health possible. Another decade of obesity was counter that agenda. Eighty-year-old me sometimes chimes in on my financial decisions, too. She will often tell me, “I am glad you put that money in an interest bearing account, kiddo. Inflation is a thing, and I will still need some good chocolate on my grocery list!” She also reminds me, “You can’t take it with you, and that is a worthy cause. Pony up and be grateful you can help.” The old girl speaks her mind. Six-year-old me has different wisdom to offer. I was still wetting my bed at that age, much to my horror, but six-year-old me soldiered on any way, and learned to run a load of wash in the middle of the night. She knows what it’s like when the body just Does Things–gets morning sick for eight straight months, has migraines, loses hair, gets wrinkly–and she tells me that it’s just part…