I think I'm getting arthritis.
I've taken to examining my fingers, becoming differently familiar with them, waggling them round, watching to see which can do what, comparing their widths . . . my right hand index finger is broader than the left and has more ins and outs and ups and downs and won't touch its pad in the way its counterpart does . . . and several of my fingers have white lumps between their upper joints and finger nails.
I used to worry my hair would turn nicotine yellow with age. It can happen to red - and it's dreadful. But, so far, this is an ignominy I've been spared - either that or my eyes are allowing lies in mirrors. (Friends say it's ash blonde. Which is kind.) All very interesting, aging. Except . . . except . . . I think I'll mind if my hands get distorted. It's not about pain. It's vanity.
The fear that itches though is that if it is arthritis and the arthritis spreads, I might not be able to travel the world.
When I crouch down and stand up, I can hear my knees crackling.
I looked it up on the internet; what to do about arthritis. Not much. Not anything. Maybe loose weight. But my fingers weigh hardly anything!