I woke the other day and my thumb didn’t work. The night before, the last thing I did was set the alarm clock. I used my thumb. Overnight it jammed.
‘Arthritis,’ one friend said.
‘Gout, perhaps,’ another mused.
‘It’s age,’ was the consensus.
Which is true.
I never used to injure myself in my sleep. In bed, certainly (that’s a whole other series of posts). Now I can go to bed hale and hearty and click like an fidgety cicada in the morning.
Indeed the shuffle lines in the carpet from bed to bowl are physical proof of the time it takes to loose off my Achilles and restore a normal footfall first thing.
We mused on this aging process the other day. Are there stages, well identified tipping points? For instance what stage are you at, in this decline into decrepitude, when you have to stop walking in order to blow your nose? We noticed this in our respective parents where each event becomes entirely self contained and multitasking is limited to the body’s vital functions.
Maybe ‘shuffle off your mortal coil’ as a euphemism for death tells you something. That seems to be it.
So today I decided I would run up the stairs carrying a heap of ironed clothes.
It didn’t end well. More the point I hadn’t been the one doing the ironing. Hence, today, you’ll find me for sale on eBay. Like an old motor.