I’ve joked about getting old. To be honest, once I was old enough to comprehend life expectancy I knew that thirty-something was far from old. I always thought it silly when someone clearly NOT old said “I’m getting old.”
I sort of get it now. I even said it the other day. Yes, it was mostly in jest, but I have to admit that if I were a car, the manufacturer’s warranty would be gone. On the bright side, it seems most of my family keeps going for a really long time, like Hondas or Toyotas. Maybe our chassis develop a rattle, or the engine idles rougher, but that sucker still runs.
I generally don’t complain, but at the back of my mind I’m well aware that I now have a laundry list of physical annoyances that I battle to keep in check. Most days that battle is simple and maybe takes no effort. Other days the annoyance in question gets the upper hand and I feel like crap no matter what I do.
A month ago I strained my arm by hyper-extending whilst holding a rather heavy load. It is still pissy. So while I’m chatting on the phone with my mom, and I’m thinking I’m totally getting older now. After all, I will have TWO kids in middle school next year, she mentions something that resets that mindset a bit.
I strained my arm way back in high school– same arm, same sort of injury. I didn’t remember it until she mentioned it.
So, it turns out that even though thirty-five is just around the corner, I’m not old. I simply need to write a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer informing them that greater attention to detail during assembly would be appreciated.