One thing I am discovering about aging is that pain wanders around like a man on a road trip who refuses to ask for directions.
Case in point: my sore neck. I have had pinched nerve in my neck for the past two days that feels like a giant lobster clamped on to keep from being boiled and served with melted butter.
Just when relief came from out of the blue, the pain migrated to my derriere. Simply because I ended up with one of the “bad” chairs at work. As grateful as I am to be able to turn my head independent of my torso again, eight agonizing hours in a chair that may have been new when Nixon was in office isn’t exactly a fair trade.
How I long for the days when a walk up a flight of stairs didn’t involve more grunting and heavy breathing than a prom night wrestle in the back seat of a car.
How I’d like to wake up in the morning and have the snap, crackle and pop I’m hearing come from my cereal bowl and not my joints.
Aging can, quite frankly, kiss my ass. And stop making it hurt too, dammit!