My latest theory is that one should die at forty. After forty your body starts to betray you and you begin to discover bones and muscles you didn’t know you had. At forty, my knees first started forcing me to become aware of their existence. Before that, knees were used only to determine the length of a skirt. Under the knees was too old; above the knee was hip. Now I am constantly aware of that funny looking joint that connects my thigh and my leg. Shortly after the knee, the back started vying for attention. First, it was the upper back and then the lower back. At this point I had my first encounter with a physical therapist. It was a good, pleasant experience, but when his touch wouldn’t make me better fast, I opted for a chiropractor. Now, when the hands (carpal tunnel) and the back (years of poor posture) start yelling for attention, I call my Chiro for a re-alignment of the spine. I don’t know if it’s a placebo effect, or if it actually does the job, but suffice it to say, I no longer visit a physical therapist. That is, until recently when of all the weird things that can happen to you after forty, I developed facial paralysis. It really was a strange sensation. I felt like a doll whose eyes won’t close properly. The general practitioner recommended a physiatrist who prescribed physical therapy, or rather facial therapy. So now that I got over the fp, and my eyes are back to normal as well as my face—it has regained its normal symmetry, I will resume my visits to the Chiro for a readjustment. I wish I could get one of those trash cans Homer Simpson uses when he had his little bout as the local Chiropractor, but it really isn’t that easy. And I still haven't found the trash can that will do the job better than MR--those are his initials.
The above entry is not suitable for anyone over forty; it is definitely not appropriate for anyone over sixty, and people over eighty should not be exposed to this venomous material in any way or manner. This is not a call for mass suicide. This is intended only as a warning to the young. A gypsy curse says "May you live a hundred years." Now you know what it means.