I have spent a lot of time the last few years telling everyone who asks me about retirement how much I love it and how lucky I am to be strong and healthy so I can enjoy it.
About a week ago, I wanted to rearrange things in our living room and casually lifted a basket of LPs we have hanging around waiting to be digitized. I'm not sure of the ratio of LPs to basket, but I do know that it was heavy and as soon as I started the process, I was going to regret it.
Usually, I can either stretch back pain away, or curl up like a cat and make it go away. On top of neither of those having no effect at all, parts of myself that had nothing to do with lifting a basket started to hurt and refused to move when I sent the mental order.
I have no idea what's the matter with me, but suddenly I am not strong and healthy. I am ragged and worn. I hate it. I hate it when sitting in the car makes me sore, when getting out of the car takes longer than it took to buy it in the first place, when walking makes me feel like I'm dragging all my grandchildren and an 1812 cannon, when waking up fools me into jumping out of bed and I discover jumping is no longer an option.
I've just had my annual physical, in which my doctor told me I was in great shape for my age. "Congratulations!" he said, "you're doing well."
As soon as I get my strength back, I'm going to go back in and wrestle him to the floor until he yells "Uncle!" In the interim, I'll be the one moving around like a female version of Charles Laughton in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", except I'm slightly better looking.