Many of my habits of daily living resemble those of the elderly. I am a prolific knitter and eater of digestive cookies; I enjoy wearing floor-length flannel nightgowns (the epitome of sexiness) to bed; I go grocery shopping at least five times a week, purchasing just a few items each trip; my favourite flavour is, as previously discussed, bland; I like to talk about the Great Depression and World War Two.
So maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that my body’s decided it’s eighty-two, not twenty-eight. I’m starting to think that I’m a female Jack, as per that cinematic masterwork.
There’ve been hints of this for years. When I was sixteen, I broke a hip slipping on ice. Bone scans have revealed that I have some osteoporosis, for which I consume significant amounts of yogurt and take calcium supplements. I have horrible circulation. And yesterday I found out that I have cervical osteoarthritis, which, according to the Holy Internet Authority, WebMD, “usually occurs in middle-aged and elderly people.”
Not a big deal, really. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m supposed to wear a neck brace a few days a week, for now, to aid with nerve damage or something (I don’t know … I wasn’t paying attention).