I don’t want to be a complainer, so I’ve decided not to carry on about my dilapidation. If you’re over fifty, you know what I mean. I’ve decided not to be the kind of person who looks like they’re in pain every minute of their lives, even if I am. You know the people I’m talking about. You ask how they’re doing and they look ready to cry. Then they say, “Well, as good as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose.” Then you’re trapped. You have no choice but to ask what the circumstances are and that leads to endless whining and complaining about every ache and pain imaginable.
So, I’m not going to tell anyone about the way my feet hurt so badly I can hardly walk, (Plantar Faciatis, if you were wondering), or how my hip wakes me up in the night, (probably need a replacement). And I’m certainly not going to talk about my hot flashes and night sweats and the fact that I’d give anything for a good nights sleep. No, I’m not going there. I have vowed to avoid complaining at all costs.
I’m just going to go to the podiatrist and beg to have my feet cut off and then go to a surgeon and beg for a new hip and continue to spend my nights standing in front of the opened refrigerator. A good nights sleep is over rated any way.
I’d like to write more on this subject but the arthritis in my fingers is making it difficult to word process and I’m getting a headache looking at this computer screen. And it’s probably nothing, but my back is quite sore. I probably just need to stretch it or go to the chiropractor. I doubt it’s really broken