Your feet. You used to be so fast. God, you were fast. Remember that? And it felt like nothing, how fast you were. You’d run anywhere. Well, that’s gone now.
Your hands. The first time the two of you held hands–the first time that anyone, ever, had tried to hold your hand, the first time anyone had expressed the slightest bit of interest in what your hands might feel like–it was like every one of your fingertips carried its own pulse. It was impossible, how often your palms would find each other, how their thumbs would trace your wrists, leaving behind a trail of heat so palpable you’d swear to God everyone else could see it. Also for the mild carpal tunnel syndrome, which is only going to get worse, never better.
Your back. You never even used to notice you had one. That is the best a human back can possibly feel: nonexistent. You notice it always, now. You manage it. You coax it. You stretch and knead it in a constant, useless apology. It’s sorry, too.
Your knee (left). The way it hurts in the morning is completely and wholly unlike the way it hurts in the evening, like the clot of pain there has two supervisors who trade shifts. “Morning, Ralph.” “Morning, Frank.”
Your ankle (also left). It pops, now, almost every time you flex your foot or climb the stairs, which drives you crazy. Crazier than it should. It shouldn’t need to keep popping. Whatever function popping could possibly serve should certainly have been fulfilled right now. It’s stupid, and it’s small, and it’s nothing really, but if it’s going to keep popping like this every day for the rest of your life you don’t think you can handle it. Not that you have any other options.
Your brain. For letting any of this come to you as a surprise. For letting you think that the passage of time is something that’s only happening to you, or that it’s happening on purpose.
Reading this while listening to the Icona Pop song that the Hairpin just posted makes both things better, if by “better” one means “more bittersweet and heartbreaking.”
Your hip. It aches, and it aches in a way that tells you it is not quite in the right place, somehow, as if there is something stretched across the juncture of the head of your femur and the socket of the acetabulum, a rubber band maybe, something that gives slightly but also causes tension and pain. At some point during the day you will lean over in just the right way and the rubber band will slip out of place and your hip will pop back together again with a beautiful sound. You will never be able to make this magical relief happen intentionally, no matter how many times you try to do a ronde de jambe, which used to work when you were 16 and in dance class. But you’re not 16, and you can’t really do a ronde de jambe any more, and it doesn’t work. It will never work again.
You will develop propitiatory routines for your hip, based off something that seemed to work once. You will go to a PT who does manipulations that feel like nothing until the next morning, when your hip snaps and grumbles its way into a new alignment, which will be temporary. You will sacrifice dignity to your hip, lying on a mat in the gym doing straight-leg lifts where you try to press your heels toward the ceiling, because sometimes afterward if you tuck your left foot under your right knee and roll so that your left hip comes off the floor you will get a deep satisfying crack in your lower back that is better and more addictive than some drugs. You will snarl quietly–“Come on, come ON”–when the rituals don’t work and your hip feels cloudy and ill at ease. You’ll apologize for your hip sometimes when it’s acting up; you’ll recite its CV when seeing new trainers or doctors or activity partners. Your friends will introduce you to their hips; you will trade contact information for play dates they can go on with their hips (“Oh, this massage therapist did the BEST THING for My Hip”). You’ll learn your hip’s moods and what makes it angry and how to get the best out of it. You will remember Saint Augustine, referring to the body as Brother Ass, and after you get through sniggering you will acknowledge that there’s some truth to that idea, that you’re stuck with this particular body and that while you can make certain improvements, you’re not going to be able to fix everything. You’ll make intermittent peace with that. You’ll also own a heating pad and a pinky ball and maybe a foam roller.
Your eyes: Everything used to be so crisp, so clear. They’ve seen the world and gotten beautifully lost in the eyes of others. Staring at a computer all day has made them hazy and a little foggy by the end of the day. They would be sorry but they know it’s your own fault; get reading glasses already, your eyes are tired.
Your nose: you used to be able to inhale deeply the scents of the world. You enjoyed them all—the subtle and the strong, the natural and the artificial, the pleasant and even the foul. But now every flower, every waft of smoke, every perfumed passerby, every air freshener, every household cleaning product, every scented deodorant, every everything gives you a sore throat and itchy eyes and makes you sneeze, and if you don’t remove yourself from its presence soon you will most certainly end up with a cold.
and you’re HOW much younger than me, Ms. Ortberg???!!! i dunno my body is actually holding up pretty well, considering what it’s been through. although, my boobs, but no one wants to hear about that.
Uhhhh, how old are you??? I have a nasty case of osteoarthritis that’s only getting worse. Childbirth did not help.
Some people have fewer problems or a higher tolerance to pain…or they’re younger. I’m on the wrong side of 35
Your right shoulder: which gets tense and achy within the first hour of work no matter how much yoga or stretching you do. You’ve got another 20-30 years of this to look forward to, enjoy the desk job!
Your right shoulderblade: it maintains a dull, lasting ache all the time, occasionally punctuated by a sharp stab right through to your lungs, like someone shoved a knife under the bone. You have not yet found a stretch that helps. Desk jobs!
Based on the shit my body puts me through, I’m pretty sure it gives 0 fucks about what I want or feel.
Also, my ankle not only pops constantly, it occasionally just refuses to continue to function as a fairly vital connector between my foot and the rest of me and I fall down. This is not cute-clumsy.
My body is not sorry. I had it coming. Sorry, body, for the dislocated shoulder and the broken finger, and for not bothering with a doctor’s visit for either of those or for any of the little things that have gone wrong. I was just busy. You get it, right? No hard feelings? Wait, what are you doing to my knee, I thought we were friends again, body!
My feet were never fast.
My right achilles tendon is such an asshole.
Your metabolism: Look, kid, I thought we’d have to deal with foraging and ice ages and periods of starvation, and I tried to do my best for you by being as slow as I possibly could. I wanted you to survive, dammit! I wanted what was best for you. And I’m so deeply sorry that in today’s society, this has led to bullying, street harassment, poor treatment by doctors, and a host of self-esteem issues. All attempts to change me or speed me up will be heartily laughed at, tho.
My belly roll and I are in a huge fight. I refuse to acknowledge it, it refuses to leave. It’s a standoff.
The popping!! Right knee, right ankle. Reading this resulted in me reflexively popping my right ankle about a hundred times which was both satisfying and horrible.
I just put my left shoulder through its Special Popping Routine, with which I can creep out Mr. Howlet. So much fluid, having a party in my shoulder joint!
I don’t know why you are angry left knee, but please stop, I need to exercise for the health of all of the rest of me.
Brain: you better apologize. You are my greatest strength and my biggest weakness. Stop telling me I’m worthless.
Left nipple: dude, what the hell, why are you sore…nothing has happened to you recently, the rest of the boob is fine, the other nipple is fine, what is going on? I know it will fade, and you will be fine in a week or so, because you have done this before, but still, it is confusing.
Skin: I will keep dousing you in various forms of acid until you stop constantly erupting in gross red bumpy ways. Also, why do you always form sweat on my face when I’m trying to put on makeup or lotion? Sweat in other places, please!
Brain/Adrenal Glands: Look, we just figured that we’ve hit 29, and we’ve had a pretty calm existence thus far, so we might as well just start having panic attacks/let the emetophobia get worse because that’s exciting, right? We couldn’t have predicted that you wouldn’t *like* becoming a near-total shut-in nearly incapable of going out to eat without the assistance of medication. We were trying to do something interesting for you! God!
I just put my left shoulder through its Special Popping Routine, with which I can creep out Mr. Howlet. So much fluid, having a party in my shoulder joint!
My lower back is not apologizing at all. It is very angry that I spent yesterday sitting on a concrete floor assembling $2000 worth of Ikea furniture for my office. I did sun salutations, half pigeon, those spread-leg gym class stretches and still had to clutch the edge of the sink while bending over to wash my face this morning.
My ass is also not happy about the squatting I did while wrestling with the allen wrench at weird angles.
Why there isn’t a gym where you just assemble and disassemble Ikea furniture for a couple hours every session, I do not know.
My lower back is not apologizing at all. It is very angry that I spent yesterday sitting on a concrete floor assembling $2000 worth of Ikea furniture for my office. I did sun salutations, half pigeon, those spread-leg gym class stretches and still had to clutch the edge of the sink while bending over to wash my face this morning.
My ass is also not happy about the squatting I did while wrestling with the allen wrench at weird angles.
My knees, they crunch. 🙁
My brain and body actually like me a lot better now. I can rotate my shoulders backward without wanting to die, I don’t have to straighten my posture when I’m standing, my neck almost never hurts (and it hurt every day from the ages of 16 to 27), my hip has stopped rolling horrifically in the socket, my anxiety is manageable and my depression virtually nonexistent…
My knees are occasionally unhappy and my lungs hate me even though I have never smoked, but I will take mildly unhappy knees and lungs that were never good over the litany of complaints I had in my teens and early twenties.
So is it normal to completely lose your ability to remember things as you grow older? I’m only 30 and in the last 5 years I’ve gone from remembering every little detail of any day to not retaining anything in my head. I’ve had to deal with a serious illness which may cause brain chemistry changes, but doctors don’t acknowledge this, and most people dismiss it, except for fellow patients. If I bring it up with anyone, they say it happens to everyone, and I’m not sure if they’re being dismissive or this is actually a thing.
My hand is still hurting four days later from all of the sawing that I did on Saturday when a tree fell on my garden. Fortunately, it wasn’t incredibly thick, but who uses that muscle on the palm of their hand, under their thumb for anything other than sawing?
I’m also happy to say that at 30 years old, my back is better than it was when I was 15-18. Between color guard and being hit by a car while on my bike, it was brutal back in the day. Now it only occasionally does this thing that I can only describe as the jerky movement of going uphill on a wooden roller coaster, with each individual vertebra moving a bit on its own. Back then it did it constantly. And I can crack it on my own to relieve the tension now. I was around 21 before that was even an option for me. But I know it’s only a matter of time before it begins to decline again.
Oh, body, dear body: I’m sorry. I took you for granted. I luxuriated, all unknowing, in the privilege of swiftness, of straight spine and solid footing. I thought your small flaws were failings, not facets reflecting the impossibility of perfection in a physical form.
Oh, body, sweet body, I’m sorry. You did so much for me for all those years, and you still do so much for me now. And I rarely think to be grateful for what I have, only wistful or anxious or bitter over what I have lost, and what I have still to lose.
Oh, body, sweet body, I am grateful. I know what I have lost, but now I also know what I once only thoughtlessly possessed. Now I know enough to know I am lucky, still.
Oh, body, sweet body, thank you for what you do — for what you allow me to do. Thank you for standing in the morning. Thank you for walking, even if haltingly sometimes. Thank you for your arms, for holding my loved ones close — and sometimes even pick up the smallest ones. Thank you for these legs, which I will honor by making them stronger. Thank you for this back, this bent and crumpled back. I know it isn’t angry. I know it is only screaming in pain, not rage. I will be kind to it, I swear.
Oh, body, sweet body: thank you. Thank you for what you have done for me, for what you will do for me, and for letting me see how lucky I have been.
Oh, body, dear body: I'm sorry. I took you for granted. I luxuriated, all unknowing, in the privilege of swiftness, of straight spine and solid footing. I thought your small flaws were failings, not facets reflecting the impossibility of perfection in a physical form.
Oh, body, sweet body, I'm sorry. I didn't see the car coming. I didn't know those little lifelong (only occasionally painful) crunches were a toccata, a poignant preparation for the brutal CRUNCH of its fender smashing against your knees, its hood slapping against your falling thigh and hip, your hand smacked against the windshield, the delicate curve of your occipital hitting the pavement as you fell back (as we all fall back) into gravity's sway.
Oh, body, sweet body, I'm sorry. You did so much for me for all those years, and you still do so much for me now. And I rarely think to be grateful for what I have, only wistful or anxious or bitter over what I have lost, and what I have still to lose.
Oh, body, sweet body, I am grateful. I know what I have lost, but now I also know what I once only thoughtlessly possessed. Now I know enough to know I am lucky, still.
Oh, body, sweet body, thank you for what you do — for what you allow me to do. Thank you for standing in the morning. Thank you for walking, even if haltingly sometimes. Thank you for your arms, for holding my loved ones close — and sometimes even pick up the smallest ones. Thank you for these legs, which I will honor by making them stronger. Thank you for this back, this bent and crumpled back. I know it isn't angry with me, or even with the car… or even with that driver. I know it is only screaming in pain, not rage. I will be kind to it, I swear.
Oh, body, sweet body: thank you. Thank you for what you have done for me, for what you will do for me, and for letting me see how lucky I have been.
Lol, this post is really funny, specially the comments 🙂