I Used to Be So Hip

People age. I personally am falling apart at the seams. The latest body part calling for attention is my right hip, which, after being subjected to years of running and aerobic exercise, has all but ceased to perform like a hip should. For example, turning around, bending over, sitting up, lying down, standing and climbing stairs are all things it hates doing, and lets me know in no uncertain terms. But hey, through the wonders of modern science, I can now get a brand new hip installed!

While I don't relish the thought of undergoing surgery, I balk at the concept even more; aren't we supposed to get old and eventually die? New body parts seem like cheating. In fact, this is the very subject of a novel I am currently reading called "Twenty Thirty." Written by the brilliant comedian Albert Brooks, it is neither brilliant nor comedic but is still quite absorbing and a fun way to spend time. Full of characters with names like Paul Prendergast and John Van Dyke, the plot centers around the fact that in the year 2030, people live longer because cancer has been cured. As a result, all the young people resent the hell out of "the Olds" for sapping the health care system in a society with huge debt, too many people and not enough of anything to go around. A civil war, with age the deciding factor of which side you're on, is brewing, or at least it was last night just before I nodded off after downing a couple of Tylenol PMs.

As for my possible hip replacement, I am debating whether or not it is the right thing to do. Will my selfish insistence on continued mobility be robbing someone younger of health care? Should I just hobble off into the sunset when my time comes? I'm only sure that I'm still not sure, so I'm waiting to see how things turn out for a dear friend of mine who is scheduled for that very procedure next month.  Until then, I'll get out the ice pack and finish reading my book.