Getting older is a strange experience because nobody warns you that eventually your body will begin filing complaints about things you used to do without even thinking. When I was younger, I could jump out of bed in the morning and immediately go about my business. Now, getting out of bed is a carefully negotiated three-step process involving stretching, groaning, and wondering if standing up is really necessary. One morning, I bent over to tie my shoe and discovered that my back had apparently decided to retire. I froze halfway down, unable to move, while my wife asked, “Are you okay?” I said, “Yes,” because admitting the truth would have required explaining why I was lying on the floor next to the shoe I was trying to tie.
My knees have also become unreliable. They make noises that sound like someone opening a bag of potato chips every time I stand up. My eyesight has joined the rebellion, too. I can read a road sign from fifty yards away but need three different pairs of glasses to find the glasses I’m already wearing. Then there’s the mysterious soreness. I can wake up in the morning with a stiff neck, a sore shoulder, and a painful hip without having done anything more strenuous than sleeping. Apparently, even unconsciousness has become a contact sport.
The most alarming part is that my body now heals on its own schedule. When I was twenty, I could pull a muscle on Monday and feel fine by Wednesday. Now, if I sleep on my left side incorrectly, I’m looking at a six-week recovery and a personal grudge against the mattress. Aging may not be for the faint of heart, but it does teach you humility. You stop bragging about how far you can run and start bragging about successfully getting out of a recliner without making a sound. And eventually, you realize the true measure of fitness isn’t how fast you can climb stairs—it’s whether you can remember why you walked upstairs in the first place.