Funk

I didn't get a thing done yesterday. No laundry, no cleaning, nothing. In fact, I didn't even get dressed. My hip hurt, making it hard to walk. Spouse cleaned the kitchen. Bless him. Today it's not quite as stiff. I wonder if the ache is from the climbing, reaching, stretching and crouching I did while painting on Saturday.

I miss my young self. I miss the ease of movement, the flexibility and limberness, the stamina, the simple ability to function normally the day after some sort of strenuous effort. Not too long ago, while playing with my nephews, I turned a cartwheel and heard my joints say "pop, pop, pop!" My nephews exclaimed, "Aunt Angela, what was that noise?"

Not much, sweeties, just your auntie getting old.

And now, a teary funk

I decided to see my doctor this afternoon. The longer I sat, the stiffer I got and the more I limped and hobbled, so I left work and hied myself off to the clinic for a once over.

After a little discussion and a few questions, pokes and prods, she leaves the room. Her nurse comes back a few minutes later with medication samples and some instructions. "Doctor says it's either a strain or bursitis. Here, take these, do these exercises, and if it's not better by next Monday come see us again. We'll start you on physical therapy."

The medication is Celebrex. I am officially old now.

I'm in tears over this. How am I supposed to chase after that hypothetical child if I have bursitis?

Okay, okay, already!

The pity party is officially over, for today at least. I reserve the right to throw another one at any time.

Seriously, though, it's true about "the least little thing and I'm a basket case" comment. Anxiety lives with me on a constant basis these days. I wish it would just go away. I'm worn out by the continuous emotional upset. My poor husband. Mr. Tolerance.