There Should Be A Handbook

Well, dear reader, it is Thursday and the last day of my thirty-day course of steroids. Sigh. I am no longer hopping down the stairs in the morning as if I don't have any aches or pains in my body. On Tuesday, I got steroid shots in both knees. Let me tell you that it is not for the faint of heart. Needles do not bother me one iota, but taking shots in both knees was an experience I could have done without. Tabitha Conrad is my girl. If she were not the one giving me the shots, I probably would not have followed through with it. Now, I am waiting for the full effects to kick in and my knees to feel like they are in their twenties again. Nobody warns you how humiliating and demoralizing aging is. 

No handbook explains exactly what is happening to your body as each decade passes. Nobody warns you that some of these signs and symptoms will hit sooner rather than later. There aren't any conversations to be had that give you a heads-up on how bad it's going to be. A heads up would be nice, but no, you just age, and these things hit you like a ton of bricks, and you look like Wylie Coyote under the anvil that fell from the sky. Sigh. 

Nobody tells you your joints are going to wear out, and you're going to need shots of gel and steroids directly in said joints to not walk around like Quasimodo. My walk has gone from a gentle swish of the hips and glide of the feet to more of a gimpy waddle. I liken my gate to my gimpy old goose. Thank God I haven't developed the walking sh**s that the goose has, but heck, at this point I fully anticipate I will. Let's add insult to injury and not only walk like a fat-bottomed goose who has been bitten by a snapping turtle, but let's add the walking shi**s to it as well. Good times. 

 Then, there is the bladder thing. Now, I have not given birth, so one would think my bladder is still, you know, normal-sized, firmly in place, and able to control itself for more than five minutes after it signals I have to pee. Let me tell you, birthing a baby has nothing to do with what happens to a woman's bladder. My bladder is now the size of a four-year-old's and has all the patience and impertinence of a two-year-old. That first twinge of I might be full demands the respect of James S. Patton; there is only one sort of discipline-perfect discipline. You had better bet your sweet bottom that this girl is going to find the restroom when her bladder signals. Gone are the days of holding it until you get home and can pee in your own comfortable environment. I'm stopping at every McDonald's and Sheetz from Indiana to home to keep my bladder gladder. I call my bladder Gladis, and Gladis is a b**ch!

Not a single living soul shared that all those high heels and cute shoes I wore in my teens, twenties, and thirties would help me to develop bunions the size of a hickory nut on each of my feet. Nobody warns you that the bunion will add to the gimpy goose waddle, make wearing any shoes that don't look like duck's feet impossible, and make wearing extra-wide shoes the only plausible option. In the event I make a very poor decision and believe I can defy gravity and physical pain by wearing a kitten heel to make my calves pop and look cute, Paul, that is the name of my right big toe, for Paul Bunion, makes walking impossible for at least two days following said bad decision. For forty-eight hours following the unreasonable decision to wear cute shoes, I must alternate between ice and warm Epsom salt soaks to control the swelling. Seriously, nobody could write an owner's manual for the aging female body?

Oh, and then there is the actual physical appearance of your body. Remember the cute little bubble butt you had in your youth? Yeah, mine is a very distant memory. I advise my daughter to photograph her butt now if she wants to remember how cute it is, because, last, it will not. Oh, no, we are all destined for that flat, sad granny butt. We had a large black hog named Sugar that had a sad, swinging granny butt. I can't help but see Sugar when I make the mistake of looking at the back of my body in the mirror. It's all going South like a slow-motion avalanche of flesh. Sigh. 

Then add in wrinkles, age spots, hyperpigmentation, low collagen, high keratin,  menopausal acne, and facial hair, and you are one hot, fat-bottomed goose waddling, mess. Yet, nary a soul tells you any of this. You may hear a grump or gripe every now and again, but nobody sits you down and says, "Look, lady, forget everything you think you know about your body, because it is all going to change and leave you feeling like you are a stranger in your own skin." Despite the fact that you still have the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old, the mental capacity of a thirty-year-old, and the maturity level that fluctuates between ten and twenty-five, your body is going to betray you in ways you never imagined. One day, you are going to grab onto the countertop to steady yourself and think, "This is how old ladies fall and break a hip." You're going to walk your dog and think, "This uneven terrain is how I am going to die alone in a field with only the turkey vultures to signal something is amiss." You're going to buy sneakers and think. "Oh, I can wear these with anything," and anything means elastic-waisted pants. Yeah, that is how we all go down, ladies, and it ain't pretty. The worst part is that those who have gone down before us are selfish, rude, and narcissistic enough to believe that since nary a soul warned them about it, they too will sit back and watch the fall of the generation behind them and think, those young b**ches had it coming. So much for sisterly love. 

On this Thursday, stay safe, be smart, know you aren't alone in the aging process, there are safe places to talk about all the unpleasantries of aging, somebody needs to write a tell-all of exactly what happens before we get here, and keep washing your hands...because fun fact, your immune system turns on you too.