Is life just harder the older we get?

So last Friday, I was racing around the house trying to get ready to go to the physical therapy center for treatment for my arthritis, which has been hurting like a mother lately.

Whether it’s going to really help or not, who knows.

I’m just hoping to avoid any more flare-ups like my last one, which lasted five weeks and had me hobbling around like some nonagenarian with a broken hip.

The only good part about physical therapy, which takes place in a heated pool, is that I’m the youngest one there. Not counting the physical therapist techs.

Like always, I was in a rush. I only had one more thing to do: go get some papers in the office. As I turn the corner in the kitchen, my left foot catches the trash container, and I fly head first, face down into the carpet.

This is supposed to help my arthritis how?

You know the funny thing about falling? It’s almost like it’s done in slow motion. You, or at least I, can feel myself falling, and as I’m going down, I’m thinking to myself, I can’t believe I’ve just been this stupid.

Then I hit the floor, and my brain says, “Yep, you were. In fact, you’ve been this way for a long time. You just didn’t notice it as much when you were younger.”

My elbow and knees have carpet burn. I can feel the sting without even looking. Doesn’t feel like I’ve broken anything so I start to look up to survey the damage.

Cleaning up garbage has never been one of my favorite things. In front of me, not six inches from my nose, is an empty can of dog food with two plastic forks lying next to it. Can’t tell if it rolled by me after the trash can tipped over, or if it simply went sailing over my head.

Even the can has this look: Stupid. I don’t want to turn around, but I know I must. Slowly I turn only to spot disaster. The kitchen trash can is completely turned over, and conveniently, the remains of last night’s dinner are now adding color to the carpet, like the pallet belonging to some abstract artist.

The red tomato soup is nicely topping the carpet; used dog chew sticks are mixed in with it; and the leftover usedup rice is now dotting the carpet like some stagnant maggots have invaded the living room. At first I can’t tell what they are until I see that the white rice has mixed in with the red tomato soup and turned into this weird shade of orange.

Oh, yeah, there’s the paper bowl that still has some of the leftover dog food in it. The empty can is near my head, while its contents are near my feet making a mess out of the carpet. My shoulder is starting to hurt, and so is my left hip.

The plan is to go to physical therapy to help relieve the arthritis, not fall on the floor to exacerbate it, you $%#&@# moron, I tell myself.

Can’t even tell where my glasses have flown off to. Off to my left side is a stuffed dog toy staring at me, trying hard not to laugh. The dog heard me hit the floor so he’s already run off, probably happy I didn’t land on him.

So, now with a bad back, I have to spend five minutes or more picking up all of the used garbage, the individual bits of rice were particularly fun, and then get some wet paper towels to wipe up the tomato soup, knowing that I’m later going to have to get out the carpet cleaner to clean up the mess.

Disgusted, I called the physical therapy center to let them know I needed to cancel my 11:30 appointment.

Did I tell you about the time I was wheeling the large black hard-plastic garbage can out to the street, and the wind caught the top of the lid and slammed it into my face, breaking my glasses?

I look over my body at all the scars I got as a kid and a teenager, and I think to myself, no, nothing has changed, you’re still a klutz. It’s just that the falls didn’t hurt as much as they do now.