Aging gracefully

I am not aging gracefully.
Just painfully.
Now, lest anyone thinks I give a shit about gray hair and wrinkles, I don’t.
It’s the aches and pains that put me in a mood.
A month ago (or maybe more, I can’t remember), I strained a muscle in my forearm. Some days, I grab a water bottle or a coffee mug and a hot pain runs up my arm.
“You need to get that looked at,” my wife said.
Yeah, spend a couple hours in my GP’s office, all to tell me it’s tendonitis and to rest it.
It’s my left forearm; I’m left-handed. I can’t do anything right-handed.
For now, I’m trying to ignore it; put a little ice on it, a little Icy Hot.
So, I’m awakened this morning to the ripple of back spasms. Enough that I evac to the couch to stretch.
I’m 43. I have abused this body. I have had two knee surgeries and my orthopedic surgeon said it’s not if, it’s when I get the knee replaced.
It all just pisses me off.

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