They Say Age Is Just A Number

Tell That To My Knees and My Back

Someone somewhere once said “age is just a number.”

It might be true.

But it’s a number my knees remind me of every time I try to get off the sofa without making that noise.

You know the one, I’m talking about!

That involuntary grunt of a body filing a complaint.

I didn’t used to make that noise. I used to stand up silently. Effortlessly.

Like standing was just something bodies did. Now standing up is a three-act play.

Act One: Assessment. Calculate angles. Consider momentum.

Act Two: Execution. Push off with more force than necessary. Knees provide live feedback, but none of it positive.

Act Three: Recovery. Stand there adjusting, making sure everything’s still attached.

Then walk away like nothing happened.

“Age is just a number.”

So is the amount of ibuprofen I take before any activity my younger self considered “basic movement.”

So is the number of seconds I stand still after getting up too fast because my vision’s gone spotty and I’m seeing flashing lights.

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

Great. Today I feel 87. Yesterday I felt 54. My age fluctuates based on weather and whether I’ve slept wrong.

Yes, you CAN sleep wrong. Didn’t know that was possible. But I woke up last Tuesday and my neck had filed for divorce.

“Age is just a mindset.”

Tell that to my back after I bent down to pick something up. It’s not a mindset. It’s a structural issue. The warranty’s expired.

I used to do things without thinking. Run upstairs. Sit on the floor. Carry heavy bags.

Now I have to plan these like a military operation. Timing. Resources. Exit strategy.

Sitting on the floor isn’t casual anymore. It’s a commitment. Because getting BACK UP involves momentum, furniture assistance, and hoping no one’s watching.

“You’re not old, you’re experienced.”

I’m experienced at making noises when I move. A full vocabulary of grunts, sighs, and joint clicks that say “I’m doing something my body doesn’t approve of.”

The worst part? I’ve become my parents.

Swore I wouldn’t. Then one day you’re standing from a chair and there it is. The noise. My father’s noise. Coming out of MY mouth.

This is it. This is who I am now.

A person who narrates their movement with sound effects.

Age is just a number.

But it’s a number my entire body likes to remind me about. Loudly. Consistently. Painfully. Every time I dare to exist.

Still, could be worse.

At least I can still GET off the sofa.

Even if it requires a soundtrack.