Well, on Friday, technically, I was old. (And 50 is still seven weeks out!)
I saw my doctor for my annual physical. Among other things he determined that I actually do have a torn right rotator cuff (which is why I am not at the range today; after he worked the arm I would be lucky to hold steady for a full magazine of .45ACP). He also remarked upon the stiffness in my hands and the creakiness of my left knee. For all of these things he prescribed Relafen. (And in two weeks I have to start self-therapy exercises for the rotator cuff.)
Yes...I have arthritis. What a shock after years of crawling around in people's attics and crawl spaces and generally beating the hell out of myself until I wised up, went to college, and (serendipitously) found a tech job I could do from a soft chair.
Of course, since I got into the soft chair 15 years ago, my weight has ballooned about 70 pounds. And believe me, he was on my ass about that, too.
I have to say that after a couple of days of Relafen, my hands already feel better than they have in years, and I'm making typos like crazy since they are so much more limber than I'm used to. Since the keyboard is my main line of communication in my job, this is going to make life much, much easier.
But this getting old shit is really for the flippin' birds.
You're the exact reason I keep stackin' bricks and stones. I refuse to gain the extra tonnage, and want to stay in good enough shape to take on all comers if the event ever arises.
Of course, with my mouth and propensity of telling people to go fuck themselves to their lovely faces, that should be occurring weekly, but it doesn't.
Dad stayed active until about three months before he died. 5'8", 165 pounds wringing wet, and I wouldn't have wanted to get in his way if he was mad about something.
Sadly, I didn't get those genes.