My parents came over for a visit and promptly began to run down the roll call of their various aches and pains before they even sat down. Which they apparently had a lot of to go around. They’ve earned that right. Once you reach past a certain age, you’re allowed to complain all you want.
A threshold of which I can never cross in certain company.
Except the day before, I had been whipping a water hose in every direction for my kids to play in like I was still a kid myself. The lengths we go through to entertain and waterbomb our children. My body, however, informed me that morning that it wasn’t happy. Not happy at all to be used for that kind of exertion. As such, my shoulder blade was insufferable.
Oh, my arm! Oh, my leg! Ow, my back!
“My shoulder has been bothering me, too, since I woke up this morning.”, I chimed in.
To which they both turned to look at me as though I’d sprouted a third head.
“What are you complaining about?”, my mom dismissed. “You’re only 32.”
“Still hurts”, I shuffled my feet and mumbled as the subject changed.
The lesson here is that you’re only as old as those you’re listing your ailments to. Next time, I’ll stick to groaning at my kids. They’re polite enough to consider me ancient. As Jedi asked the other night, “Were there dinosaurs back in 1979?”. Yes, because I was born in the dark ages. Now here, son, come rub this Icy Hot on your geriatric mom’s shoulders.