I always thought I’d feel the same, but I think I’m getting old.

I can see it in Adam — especially the rapid acceleration of grey hair.  I only have one grey hair, by the way — and I vainly tweeze it.

But now I think getting old is more about a loose assortment of ailments catching up with you.

This morning, I walked up to the Mulholland fire road (an uphill trek), and planned to run back down down to my street  to keep my heart rate up.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t sustain the run.  Why?  Well I bruised my lower back when I fell folding a sheet a few weeks ago. 

Don’t ask.

I’ve always been a bit of a klutz and I couldn’t see the large, purple exercise ball under my feet while I was folding a billowing queen size sheet in front of the open balcony window — and down I went.  It wasn’t a graceful fall.

So my lower back has been aching, and the pain sometimes radiates down my legs.  My prognosis — fine — just let it heal.

Then I purchased Adam some sculpting clay last week so he could make a bust (of whom, I don’t know). 

We were in the car today and I was asking him why he hasn’t started his project.  It turns out that the repetitive motion of typing and checking his e-mail all day has injured his hand.

Needless to say, he’s been hiding this from me because I’ve been nagging him to see the doctor — it’s a crisis and we do have that oh-so-uncomprehensive crisis care health insurance.  But he’s been putting it off.

If this is getting old, I don’t want any of it.  I want to get hurt, shake it off, and start the next day fresh without calling my doctor and doubling up on the pain medication.

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