I’m gettin’ real tired of this aging thing.  Some of it seems to have just creeped into my life and some of it seems to have just popped up overnight.

It’s all a pain in the patootie. Literally.

Now look, I’m grateful for a lot of things that passing middle age has afforded me. I say, more than I used to, “What have I got to lose?” and I just go forward with stating an opinion. If people ask my opinion on anything, they really want to know.  You don’t have to worry as much about things you used to worry about, and you actually start thinking about how silly it is to worry all the time.  

At least, that’s what has happened to me as I’ve aged. Not as much worry.

But as I said before, I’m gettin’ real tired of these aches and pains.  

And it doesn’t help to complain. I moan and groan and Michelle says “diet.” It’s like she’s some sort of wind-up doll.  

“Honey, my shoulder is bothering me again.”  

“Inflammation. Go on a diet. Stop eating sugar. Watch your white flour intake.”

She never stops. I think if I walked around drinking water and eating rice cakes, she’d come up with something I was doing wrong.

“Diet. Diet. Rice will kill you. Diet. Diet. Polly want a cracker.”

Sheesh.

My mother is now an octogenarian and knows everything. If you don’t believe me, just ask her.  When I talk about aches and pains in my shoulder or my hip or my pointer finger, she, like Michelle, has a one word response: “Arthritis.” 

Both of them, important women in my life, are fountains of encouragement.

I’ve never been what you call a muscle man, but I’ve had parts of my life where I was in better shape than others. Once in a while, I’ve noticed a little bit of definition in my arms where a bicep is supposed to be. There is still a faint bit of recognition. I can still see a bicep trying to hang on for dear life.

Lately, when I look in the mirror (which I’m doing less and less), I’ve noticed some little skin folds around my upper arms that look strange, as if my skin is saying “OK, I’m done. I think I’m just going to sort of droop and hang out from now on.”

Seriously, I should have enjoyed youth and youthful appearances a lot more than I did.

I have older friends who begin comments like “Well, once you hit 50” and “I hate to tell you, but” and “I can’t promise that it will get any better.”

It doesn’t do any good to complain. Few people have any type of positives to share with you.

There are days that I just decide to plug along, regardless of how I creak and groan, and I sort of just ignore things.  But I’ve noticed that I take more breaks and I find myself saying things like “Well shoot, I’m retired. I can surely sit here for a little while longer.”

I said that the other day and woke up 45 minutes later.

The days that I get a burst of energy, I feel as if I have to work like a house afire to seize every ounce. So, I spend the day in the yard or garage, working like a dog, and then feel like I’m going to drop dead when I come into the house.   

I stumble up to the bathtub and try to rejuvenate. But really, it feels like I’ve been bathed and wheeled out to the sun porch before my evening medication.

I got out of the tub, put on comfortable clothes, and walked slowly out of the bedroom the other night, taking my time because I was worn out.

Michelle said, “What’s wrong with you? You’re walking funny.”

I said, “I don’t know.  Maybe I had a spell outside and don’t know it.”

The truth is, I can’t work as hard as I used to and it really, really makes me mad.

Still, it feels encouraging when I actually go a week eating right or drinking more water or getting better sleep. I really do feel better, and then I start thinking that maybe there’s a way to turn back the clock. 

I can get a new sleep schedule and make sure I’m getting relaxed before I go to bed. I can buy a new water bottle that calculates how much water I’ve consumed. I can work out. I can do intermittent fasting again (which works, by the way) and I can basically become a much healthier specimen. I can add years to my life and I can decrease the aches and pains and mysterious feelings that come with aging.

And then I get up and my knees crack like someone is playing one of those wooden xylophones on my kneecaps.  

Shoot, I can sit a while longer. Can’t I?