17 July 2009

What Is That Pain?

I’ve been feeling rather old lately. I suppose this may have been brought on by certain former classmates setting the wheels in motion for our 20 year high school reunion. Or maybe by a certain musician’s recent passing, which incited every radio station with a signal to do a “retro” weekend, wherein I discovered most of my music collection is considered “retro.” Or maybe it’s my husband, who has taken to referring to me as “you old slut.” Lovingly, of course.

It’s bad enough no one at my local grocer's bothers to ask me for proof of age when I purchase alcohol anymore. (To the contrary, they ask if I know about their half-price pints special every Thursday from 11-6.) It’s worse the lifeguards at the pool have started referring to me as “Ma’am,” and when I protested to my husband (the one who calls me “you old slut”), he pointed out “they’re half your age,” and I couldn’t retort because damn him, he’s right. I know you’re only as old as you feel and age ain’t nuthin’ but a number (Aaliyah said so), but I have to admit, I’m starting to think perhaps my body is trying to tell me something. (Not “you’re an old slut.” That’s what my husband is telling me.)

I weigh roughly 25 pounds more than the day I graduated from high school, but I’m in better physical shape than I ever was back in the day. In 10th grade, I handed in my “get out of gym class free” card by way of bad knees and a doctor’s note. Now, I run at least three days a week, bad knees and shin splints be damned. It’s the morning after I run that is the problem. I wake up and stretch, only to realize a few minutes later I’m not stretching at all because I haven’t actually moved. My brain tossed out the command, but my limbs aren’t heeding the call. Finally I am able to talk my hand into reaching down and nudging a leg, which grudgingly complies, thereby sending a horrific pain halfway up my spine. The other leg then follows suit. About 30 minutes later, I find the wherewithal to get out of bed. And promptly lose it.

My head hurts a lot more than it used to, as well. I’ve always had allergy and sinus issues, which have made headaches a normal part of my existence. But they seem to have gotten worse lately, to the point I often wake up cursing a hangover before I realize I haven’t had any alcohol in six months. I suck down so many Sudafed the pharmacy guys raise a judgmental eyebrow when I approach the counter, and I’m pretty sure the suits sitting in that dark-colored sedan parked across from my house aren’t selling Amway.

Then there are the random aches and complaints that seem to strike without warning or ready cause. For the past two days I’ve had a stitch in my left side toward the back of my torso. After confirming with several sources that my appendix is, in fact, on the right, I have no fucking clue what the hell this pain means to alert me to.

I have, however, found a remedy for those times when I feel mere moments away from Geritol and 10% off my bill at Denny’s—hang out with kids. Seriously. Those little fuckers piss and moan about far more physical complaints than most dementia-ridden nursing home residents. I made this amazing discovery when I took a vacation day from my job to attend a field trip to the zoo with my oldest son and his day camp group. Not ten minutes past the gate, these kids were already complaining. “I’m tired.” “My legs are tired.” “My lunch is too heavy.” “I need a drink.” My personal favorite was the 9-year-old who declared he has plantar fasciitis and isn’t supposed to walk much. You read that correctly.

I really don’t know how these kids are going to survive junior high. The few of them that by the grace of modern medicine are able to reach adulthood are in for a very rude awakening. If they can’t handle a couple of hours spent walking casually around the zoo, the chest pains that magically appear each time they step into their corporate cube farm are going to knock them on their collective asses.

Which gives me an idea…maybe I should start bringing my kids to work. Perhaps listening to them bitch about how feeble and frail they are will renew my own youthful vigor.

Or maybe it will piss me off and raise my blood pressure to the point of imminent stroke. I’m not getting any younger, after all.

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