Recently I made an appointment with my doctor to talk about my aching joints. As the world is now connected by apps, I made my appointment this way. In the comments section I wrote about my concerns – slight pain, the inability to do squats the way I used to, ibuprofen becoming a closer friend than I’d like. A nurse called me a couple hours later to follow up.
“You’re having trouble with your joints?” she confirmed.
“Yes,” I answered. “My knees, mostly.”
“Hmm,” she said. Her voice was not amiable.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Farley, with all due respect, you’re not 22 anymore. You’re 45. Joints are the first to go.”
I was speechless. Not because of the truth, but her attitude. “I appreciate the insight,” I told her, “but for your information, I’ve been wearing contacts for years, so sight is the first thing to go.”
The nurse didn’t laugh. I imagined Louise Fletcher sitting rigidly at a desk. I confirmed my appointment, thrilled I didn’t have to see her face-to-face.
So I’m not 22 anymore. I don’t generally let this truth bother me. I enjoy my age; believe me, I am happy to be out of my 20s and 30s. And I can’t let a little thing like aching joints get in my way. I know I need to eat better, exercise more, drink more water and less rum. This is a roller coaster I have been on a dozen times.
“It’s all part of the journey,” my doctor told me when I finally saw him. “The next thing to go is your prostate.”
My doctor laughed. I didn’t.