“Arthritis? What the heck do you mean arthritis?” Those were the words I uttered from my fat mouth when the nice physician’s assistant came in to inject the first of five doses of gel into my broken knee. When I was signing that little form that they make you sign informing you of the possible side effects, I saw the word “arthritis” at the top. So, I surmised that people who need this gel injection have arthritis. My suspicions were confirmed when I inquired. I should have quit while I thought I was ahead.
So, here I am. At the age of 47 and already suffering from droopy eye syndrome so badly that I fear going completely blind by way of my own eyelids (is that why I need reading glasses?). I have sporadic hairs growing out of my chin. I’m thinning out down below (when I say “down below” I’m not exactly talking about my toe hair). The backs of my hands have a city map running through them. My memory lasts about as long as a teenage boy embarking on his first romp. I forgot to mention the gray that just about exceeds the natural color (whatever that is) on my head, my sudden desire for stock in the company that makes Depends and the crows feet that look more like the feet of a pterodactyl. So, now you tell me I have arthritis of the knee?
I’m over it. This aging thing royally bites. Although I don’t really think I’m that old. In case you didn’t hear me, I’m only 47. Forty-seven. XLVII (yes, I looked that up). I exercise. I eat healthy. Sure I have a glass(es) of wine a night and maybe a potato chip or two from time to time. But really? Give me a break.
It’s cool. I’m embracing it. Well, kinda. When I’m not overcome with a panic attack of epic proportions that includes downing a glass of Metamucil while watching an episode of The Golden Girls. Really. I’m okay with it. I may look and feel 86 but I act 16. That’s all that matters. Right?