Retirement Conversations with my Joints

I've decided my outer extremities have made the giant leap to sentience. I think it's a distributed system. Over the last nearly sixty years, my only internal monologue was the one happening between my ears. Thankfully it's always been a single voice and not a baker's dozen whispering peculiar thoughts.

Retirement seems to have been the breakthrough point. I'll be sitting in a quiet room, minding my own business, when the rebellious parts of my anatomy decide to join the party.

I'll be wondering to myself if a nice chicken sandwich would be the salvation to my hunger pangs and my left shoulder will make an alarmingly loud crack in agreement. I must admit I was in full agreement. Last week I fluffed an easy backhand slice during a game of doubles tennis, not only did my partner complain, but my wrist decided to interject with a few sharp clicks in support of that view.

I'd obviously heard the saying "listen to your body," but quite frankly, I never imagined this is what they were on about. Deciding to move on from the park bench I was resting on after a run, my left knee decided in a strange crunchy, grinding voice to pipe up and firmly express the opinion that another ten minutes sitting on my butt would be an excellent idea. Thankfully said butt decided not to join the conversation.

My most recent skirmish with the sentient extremities occurred this morning as I laced up my most comfortable pair of walking shoes. I had chosen the old leather pair, sturdy and well-worn, for a long trudge down to the market. Before I could even tie the bow, my right ankle began a rapid, dry ticking noise, like a tiny, angry clock. "Not those again," it hissed, not quite a crack, more a series of insistent snaps. "We both know you should have thrown those relics out a year ago. They offer the lateral support of a damp sponge and they smell faintly of regret." My left ankle joined in with a lower, mournful groan. "The sneakers, please. The new ones with the gel cushion. Have some compassion for your foundational infrastructure. We are barely holding the line against gravity as it is." I sighed, untying the laces.

But the most demanding of all was my neck. As I simply tilted my head to read the tiny print on the shoe tongue, it let out a long, resonant creak that clearly articulated a single, non-negotiable directive: it demanded a very hot shower, immediately. Just like that, my washing schedule is no longer my own.

And now, even the simple pleasure of reading is under review. My finger joints have become utterly insistent that they no longer want to hold heavy paperback books. "Technology has moved on," they declared in a chorus of stiff, grating pops. They now demand I switch to a nice, light Kindle, and have made it clear that they're going to keep going on about it, one crack and cramp at a time. They are not only talking to me, but threatening pain for non-compliance. My body is now a collective of highly articulate, highly demanding tyrants.

So this is retirement: plenty of free time, no alarm clock, and absolute autonomy, except I'm now governed by a coalition of creaking joints who've formed a very vocal union seeking better working conditions. At least they can't fire me, though I suspect they're planning on a vote of no confidence.

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