Getting old!

My next birthday is still a week away, but I don't need it to remind me that Father Time is kicking me in the nether regions. The last few days have done that quite effectively, thank you.

Originally, the plan was to drive down to the Saturday car show this morning, but when the alarm went off, I knew that the simple act of getting out of bed was all I could face. Folding myself into a low-slung car was not on the menu. Instead, I've chugged a couple of aspirins and am waiting for relief....

I guess it began on Thursday with several loads of laundry and a change of bedsheets. A few hours later, I decided the kitchen needed cleaning. Scrubbing of stove, refrigerator and countertops followed. Fair enough, but it rapidly became painfully apparent that the scrubbing of the (cheap) tile floor in kitchen and dining room was necessary as well. So, on hands and knees, with a brush and a bucket of vile cleaning solution, I set to work. After moving the dining table, etc.

Inevitably, I was a bit of a mess when I finished, though the kitchen was clean and sparkly.

Could I possibly sully my clean bed with a grubby, sweaty me? Nope. Especially since I would be messing up the extra-nice, make-me-feel-good sheets Holly bought and put on my bed while I was in hospital.

When I went into the bathroom, I immediately noticed that it was a bit scruffy, too. So: clean countertop, scrub floor, scrub tub and glass doors, scrub the toilet. Much more hands-and-knees stuff. I barely had enough energy to hose myself off afterward.

Add to this eight days (so far) of slithering in and out of a car designed to appeal to young, flexible yoots, plus an afternoon of entering and exiting an even tinier ride while photos were being taken, and my poor spine woke up this morning howling in pain.

PARENTHETICAL POETIC-LICENSE-TYPE NOTE: Okay, so it was me howling in pain; spines have no vocal cords. Don't be so damn literal, okay? I'm being "creative" here....

Doggone it.

What I really need is a good massage. But I know my fantasies of that are simply that -- fantasies -- and so am hoping a couple of Bayers will restore me to some level of functionality.

Otherwise, I seem destined to spend my natal day flat on my back, whimpering to an empty room.

Okay, I know the alternative is worse, but this is bad enough. I'm ready to go to work in Paris ringing the bells at Notre Dame. Won't even need a Lon Chaney makeup job.

Getting old is a real drag, Jim.