I've discovered I'm just a bunch of parts

Sometime, say in your late 40s, you discover you are made of parts. No longer do you consider your body as one whole piece, like Gumby (but graceful). No, you are more like Mr. Potato Head. With lots of different parts that fracture and break. If you have good health insurance, these parts are replaceable, as are Mr. Potato Head's.

Before 40, more likely in your 20s, you glided. Up stairs, down stairs, through halls and rooms full of other 20-year-olds. You flaunted your wholeness, especially to your elders (the 40 year olds). You felt no pain, no soreness. In the morning, you leaped from the bed and into the shower. And you never had to dry between the rolls of fat.

But, then, as you entered your 40s, and more likely toward the end of those years, parts of your body began to revolt. Your knee would hurt one day, your shoulder another. But they traded off. Never did they attack you on the same day. They still respected your youth.

Then comes your 50s. And the pains begin to orchestrate. They stop being polite, one bowing to the other. They all tune up at once: the knees, the ankles, the shoulders, the back, even the thumbs. The glide you once possessed is now a lumber. You grunt when you stand. Getting up from bed is more of a roll and tumble, then a slow unfurling as you limp toward the bathroom. Toweling off after a shower takes soooo much longer.

I am not in my 60s. Or even close. Bob is, and he's doing mostly OK. I do wonder what the 70s and 80s will bring or, I guess I should say, take away.

By then, I suppose I'll be fragile and easily toppled. Like Legos.