I am an old soul. My aesthetic leans more towards shabby furniture and dizzying floral patterns as opposed to the classic marble and rose gold stylings of the modern young woman. In my spare time, I like to go thrift shopping for antiques and other oddities, such as funky teapots and quirky mugs to add to my ever-growing addiction. I enjoy knitting and drinking tea before hitting the hay at the obnoxiously late hour of nine in the evening. I bake cookies and keep little bowls of candy out for guests when they visit my humble abode. Essentially, my aged soul inhabits the body of a 21-year-old female with the many ailments of the grandmother I was meant to be. Let me explain.

For years now, I have struggled with joint pain. Often, my hobbles and wobbles have been the butt of many a witty joke due to my early entrance into senior citizenhood. I have taken these jokes with a grain of salt, trying to refrain from utter saltiness; however, salt content is at an all time high, and a little dilution is necessary to keep me from complete crystallization.

Recently, I hobbled to a podiatrist with a hearty complaint about the status of my aching feet, which have been the source of all my joint pain. I waited two hours before I even saw an examination room. By that time, I had successfully taught my mother how to play hangman and laughed the hardest I had in a long time, but that’s a story for another blog. By the way, the fact that I had to teach my mother how to play hangman makes me sound like a 75-year-old woman who likes to eat fig newtons while she drinks her prune juice in the morning, but I digress.

The lovely doctor finally entered the room, evaluated my pronated feet for all of five minutes, and sent me on my merry way with a physical therapy referral in hand and harsh inserts in my sneakers. So, I took that referral to my local neighborhood physical therapy office and booked myself a session. And this was the moment when I realized that I am not just an old soul; I am an elderly woman.

I entered the miniscule office, and the pungent scent of menthol seared my nostrils. I diligently filled out the ninety-five documents required, each asking the same basic information. I turned in my forms like I had just finished a midterm, unsure and second guessing every scrap of information. Then I waited until finally, I was called back into the open area where hopefully some magic would happen.

The good therapist led me to the center bay and assessed my feet, scribbling notes and taking measurements. She then attached electrodes that sent tiny shocks into my tiny, tiny feet. While electric vibrations coursed through my ankles and toes, I happened to look up from a mindless Pinterest feed and surveyed the room.

In the bay to my left sat a man of about 70, singing his woes to the woman only trying to reduce his back pain. He sat and complained for a solid 25 minutes, occasionally performing exercises with those abnormally long rubber bands that moms in the nineties used in their Denise Austin workout videos.

In the bay to my right sat an elderly gentleman of about 65 dressed to the nines in Asics, baggy jeans, and a plain grey sweatshirt with an unidentifiable stain on the front. This elderly gentleman’s routine began with a solid ten minutes on the elliptical bike, in jeans, directly in my line of sight. This man rode that bike while making eye contact with me the entire time. It was one of the most awkward situations of my entire life. Something inside me came to terms with the fact that this is now my reality; my weekly routine will consist of seeing Bob and Joe, listening to them paint their complaints to anyone who will lend an ear.

It was also an eye-opening experience because a little light bulb went off when I surveyed that room. I came to terms with my early onset geriatric status. I now embrace the jokes, bringing those salt levels well into normal range. I’ll still leave out bowls of various candies, knit my scarves, and drink my tea. Although, I’ll never give up my reliance on coffee; it’s the only thiing keeping me from unleashing my true feelings about Bob and Joe’s mutterings at physical therapy. Until next time …