It’s the little things about getting on in years that piss me off.
Herself has commented in the past how I moan when getting out of a chair. Naturally I correct her and tell her it’s not a moan but a grunt which is significantly different from a man’s perspective. I have my dignity to maintain. It’s true though. In fact any movement is now accompanied by twinges of stiffness, some more than others. One of the worst is getting up off the floor and I suppose you’ll just suggest that maybe I shouldn’t spend so much time on the floor, but it’s something that is difficult to avoid for various reasons.
Cooking is also problematic. I enjoy cooking but it’s something to do with leaning over pots and pans or working on chopping boards that gives me a fierce backache. Cooking while sitting down doesn’t work as I tend to move around the kitchen a lot. The only answer for that one is to live off takeaways but they can turn repetitive and boring. And there’s still the washing up.
Any excursion away from home causes problems. Yesterday was a case in point where technically I did very little. I sat in a comfy heated car for a while. I stood on a couple of those escalator ramp yokes for a few minutes and then I sat in a series of chairs before repeating the escalator, car bit in reverse order. So I expended very few calories by doing very little exercise so why was I fucked after? This happens every time. A walk around the village has the same effect which delights Penny as now I’m becoming slower at walking than her.
So last night I went to bed in the sure and certain knowledge that I was in for a good night’s sleep.
I was still awake at four, tossing and turning.
There was no reason for this. The dice roll every night, and if a double six turns up I have a crap sleep, or rather lack of sleep, crap or otherwise. I don’t even get to roll these mysterious dice myself. It’s fucking annoying.
So today I’m really bollixed and craving a nap. But I have to go down to the village later which will bollix me even further.
I’m not complaining as I know from experience that there’s no point. I’m not looking for sympathy either. I know it’s all just part of the greying process. I’m becoming the clichéd picture of the bent old fart shuffling around the place. All I need now is a walking stick and the image is complete. Herself hasn’t complained that I spell of old piss, but that’s probably just a matter of time.
On the plus side though, my eyesight is crystal sharp today.