Nobody warned me that 66 was the year my body would take a good hard look at my life choices, print out a PowerPoint presentation, and schedule a mandatory all-hands meeting. No agenda. No RSVP. Just a pop-up calendar invite that said: ‘Your body requests your immediate and undivided attention.’
I didn’t RSVP. My right foot showed up anyway.
It started subtly. I went to pivot left — a perfectly normal human maneuver I’ve executed maybe a hundred thousand times — and my right foot looked at me like I’d asked it to speak Mandarin. It dragged. Across the floor. Like a disgruntled coworker who just found out they’re not getting a raise. My foot staged a small but unmistakable protest, and I went down.
I didn’t fall. I performed an unscheduled relationship check with the floor. It went poorly.