It begins almost imperceptibly long before it advances to an outright grunt or shocking groan. An innocent set of steps that only days before seemed completely negotiable suddenly become the enemy of one poorly placed unfortunate foot.
A set of keys that once used to represent little more than granted access, take on a life of their own. Under a night sky, they become an army of pranksters that insist on making fun of me as I try to find the keyhole in the dark. By day, they play hide and seek. Once in the grip of my no longer nimble fingers, they require the strength of Midas in order to gain entry into my car or through a door.
Forget about my eyes. I’ve had six of them for so long now, I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror without a pair of trifocals on my face. If only they came with windshield wipers, I’d wear them in the shower so I could see all the stray hairs I’m missing. Everybody else seems to notice them. It’s humiliating.
And my knees? Let’s just say they’re repaying me for numerous hours of ice-skating practice that never amounted to an Olympic gold medal, although the price of surgery on them might exceed the value of one.
Lately, my wrists have turned on me, too. Not in a “double-jointed, look what I can do with them!” kind of way. Rather, in the “bet you didn’t know how much you might need these oft forgotten body parts” sort of theatre of the absurd. Especially when I’m doing something as mundane as folding a sheet. This can sometimes take several minutes.
We won’t discuss the bed that has an affinity for my shins in the middle of the night. I’d change the light bulb so I could see better, but that would involve stepping on a ladder with the hope that the existing light bulb wouldn’t break my wrist as I try to unscrew it.
If there is a functioning part of my body that’s connected to my knee bone, I’m not taking any chances.