I lost two inches.

There I was. Walking through life. Minding my own business. And wham! Two inches gone.

Or that’s what the nurse tells me, the new shorter me. I’m at the doctor’s office for my annual once over. At 74, I show up.

Yessiree. I show up. So far, I’ve been lucky. And disciplined. Blood pressure beautiful. Weight to die for. Mental facilities present and pretty much accounted for. Nothing wrong. Just older.

The doc, Mr. White Coat, checks me out and certifies me good to go.

“Whaddaya mean?” I say. “I’m disappearing here.”

He spouts some blah, blah, blah about vertebrae. Then some blah, blah, blah about discs. Years, time, gravity. Whatever. Words.

But, hey, I think. I’ve been good. Every Tuesday, and I mean EVERY Tuesday, I’ve stretched — for years. Dandasana. Down dog. You know the drill. Making space. Elongating. Fighting the fight.

Yup! That’s me. Holding the line, one inch, one organ at a time. So far, I may be down two on height, but I’m undefeated on body parts, the very same body parts I determinedly stuff back into my street clothes after Mr. White Coat makes his exit. Uterus. Breasts. Ovaries. You name it. All there and proud of it. Lord knows I had to swat away a few itchy hands hoping for a chance to ply their surgical skills. Can you believe it? One eager beaver wanted to eviscerate my privates. Needlessly. Jeez! What did he think I was? A roasting chicken?

I walk my newly diminished self out through the waiting room. A magazine cover catches my eye. LOSE YOUR BELLY exhorts the headline. Ha, ha. Sure, I think. That’s a trimming I wouldn’t mind.

Not so easy, I remind myself heading towards the elevator. Not like losing two inches off my tall. They slipped away on their own. Without even waving good bye. Surprise! We’re history. And in spite of everything I did for them.

That’s a fine how do you do.

I hit the down button.

But here’s the truth. A piece goes missing, a function gets lost, and poof, before you know it, the whole enchilada, gone, and probably a little bit forgotten.

Wrapping my shrunken self around that idea is definitely challenging. Makes me want to hold on even tighter. Especially to my mind. Believe me, it’s not pretty when that goes. My mother lay in a nursing home for years without much of one. I’m not sure if it bothered her, but, boy, it bothered me. Maybe that’s the thing about losing your mind. Maybe you don’t even know. When it’s gone, it’s gone, and you’re gone with it.

Or maybe it’s like putting up a sign in the store window — Gone Fishing — off to a happier place, only you forgot and left your body behind.

Yeah, right.

The elevator descends.

One thing’s for certain. There’s no way my mom looked like she was wandering down any country road with her fishing pole over her shoulder. The only line trailing her body was the one from her bladder to the bag on the side of her bed.

Which reminds me. Bodily functions. Sheesh! That’s another thing I don’t want to lose. Who would? Walkers. Diapers. Don’t even!

But, hey. I get it. Compromise. Nothing’s a hundred percent. A little memory here. A little leakage there. Don’t sweat the small stuff. That’s my motto.

Or that’s what I tell myself while wandering the concrete catacomb under the doctor’s office trying to recall where I parked my car.

What I don’t have, I realize, marching up and down the aisles of Level 3 Section A, is a motto for the big stuff.

And I’m not so sure I want one.