When I get up in the morning, I get out of bed. The first sound I hear besides the radio that plays while I sleep is my left knee. It crackles. When I was a kid I screwed it up riding a bicycle and it crackles until it loosens up. 99% of my injuries were untreated, because if I'd been taken to the doctor every time I got a ding or booboo, I'd have been in the doctor's office a lot. Kids bounce back, so it's cool.
I take a step and both ankles greet me with clicks. Yeah, they've been through it too, and being a fat boy hasn't helped. I could lose weight. I could also hit the lottery and become a Brazilianaire. As the sleepy slumber leaves me I stretch, and crackling sounds crawl up my spine. They start down in the lumbar region and the crackles walk up to my neck. Bad back, bad neck, bad... bad. I'm aware that the sound resembles ruffling playing cards, but some crackles are louder than others so it's not mundane. If you can't be superlative, at least try not to be boring. A lifetime of fast cars and poor decision-making skills have left me with a back and neck that have been to more than one County Fair. No ribbons, and oddly, no scars. That step also wakes up my left hip. It's got sort of a clickly crackly thing going on, but it's intermittent. It's one of the few booboos I have that actually gives pain if I stand too much. Well, it and my lumbar region. Like I said, I'm a fat boy. My back hurts for the same reason pregnant women have low back pain. I wonder if it'll be a boy or a girl, and how they'll get it out? It's been “in the oven” for the best part of twenty years. It's gotta be close to done, or it's overcooked by now.
As I stretch I raise my arms, as stretching people often do. The symphony of crackles from my left should is a welcome sound. Fell off a ladder and dislocated it. The thing stays in, but I can tell it'd love to pop out sometimes. Thankfully, it behaves. My right shoulder, it's the painful one. I introduced it to a .30-06 about twenty years ago. Funny thing, that rifle. If you pulled it tight to your shoulder, it was deadly on the other end. If you let a little space get between the buttstock and your shoulder when you touched it off, it was lethal on both ends. I treated it like a .22 and it kicked like a drunk mule or a hyperactive Clydesdale. Worse? I missed the bullseye by five inches... For the record, that's not at all funny. It's cool to be kicked hard if you hit what you aimed at, but when it kicks the crap out of you and you still miss it's just pathetic.
My left wrist has a pop to it when I make a fist. I broke my wrist when I was eleven and it healed, but it's not right. I've got diminished strength in it and it's throbby. My right elbow, I knocked a chip out of it around age eight. I tripped over a dog and fell hard, so it clicks sometimes. It's the unpredictable one, because it doesn't click every time I move it. Just now and then it'll click.
The thumb on my left hand sometimes will pop if I move it just right, and sometimes it locks in place. Same with my left middle finger, but I have to physically straighten it to make it work again when it locks.
I'm twenty-nine. I'm not old. In the grand scheme of things, I'm a sprout. A fellow in Japan lived to be a hundred and sixteen. That's exactly four times my age. If we use him as a yardstick, I've got my lifespan to live four more times. By the time I hit the big nine-oh, people could be livin' lots longer. I've read that the first person who will ever be a hundred and fifty is alive right now. So I am most certainly not old.