From a member of the booming generation that’s still going strong – and I’m talking about me, don’t ya know – I bring you my latest blog addressing the essential question that may also arise for you in the workplace every ding-dong day:

AM I the oldest employee at work and, if that’s true, WHY am I still here?

Through my unofficial research that is holding a number of roles over a number of years, I’ve noted some things about things, namely, conversational subtext as it relates to aging. Here are the four indicators – represented by five slides – that you just may be the oldest employee at work with a not-so-bright – nor lengthy – future. 😂

😂For more har-hars, pithy asides, and all-in-fun observations ➡️Check out BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX. 💉✂️👩🦳

When I think of distinguishing walks the one that really stands out for me is Marilyn Monroe’s. As Jack Lemmon put it so aptly in the movie classic Some Like It Hot, she walked “like Jello on springs.”   

 I don’t know that I’ve ever been known for my uniquely come-hither walk, but it sure wasn’t the case this past year when I was launched involuntarily into “limper” status by virtue of a mysterious injury.

 My walk was less an aspirational Marilyn Monroe gelatinous glide and more of a Martin Crane—the Dad on Frasier—shuffle-hop-ball-change.  

It all started with a knee twinge that quickly became a chorus of pain, joined loudly by a crabby sciatic nerve, fused lower back, and throbbing hip. This meant I wasn’t high-kicking like a Rockette when I worked out, but rather low-legging like an injured show pony as I struggled to modify my moves.

(Fun fact: The Rockettes have been around for about a century. Non-fun fact: I was walking and moving as though I’d been around for about a century.) 

Because I lean more toward a “If I can feel it, then I can heal it” way of thinking, I’m loathe to seek out medical advice absent an emergency, but even I knew I needed to get myself into the ballpark of a diagnosis.

Off I went to visit my very nice MD, who arranged for an x-ray confirming something I’ve suspected for quite some time. I’m ageing. This was apparent when he noted quite a bit of arthritis had found its way into my body. The kicker? This finding had zero bearing on why I was having trouble weight bearing without pain.

Fresh from my non-diagnosis, I set forth to solve The Mystery of the Body That Became Its Own Island of Pain by taking the path never traveled. Because I worked out frequently and rigorously doing the same things every week, I would incorporate more variety and workout even more. After all, if you’re in pain from what you’re doing, doing more of it is the way to go with a side of variety.

Off I went to implement my easy-peasy treatment plan that included CrossFit, yoga, dance, boxing, and weightlifting followed by rolling around on a contraption that is, essentially, a rubber bed of nails. This ticked off all the “wide variety of fitness pursuits” boxes that would lead to my body healing. Wrong on the last part. Not only did this regimen result in even more aggravation of my points and parts, but it ticked off my sciatic nerve even more.

Now I was full-out Zombie limping. Look out, everyone! I’ve got a lit torch and I’m coming to your town next! Time was of the essence, lest I mirror neuron my way to permanent limper status.

[CUE SOUND: 60 Minutes stopwatch – tick, tick, tick, tick.]

 I crab walked over to my computer, entered my symptoms—the whole kit and caboodle—into the search engine that, coincidentally, also rhymes with kit and caboodle. It was there I learned oodles about body inflammation and how fascia works.

 It was clear I needed corrective bodywork stat, so I made an appointment with a practitioner of a practice that shall remain unnamed. We began with a crucial consultation. Translation: I handed her $200.00 and agreed to do that repeatedly for the foreseeable future.  

During one of our sessions she poured warm oil over my head as she gently reassured me she’d see me on the other side. (I hadn’t doubted it, until she said that.) Though the treatments were calming, my sciatic nerve didn’t get the memo because what waited for me on the other side was the extreme stinging sensation I limped in with. Plus, now I had an irrational fear of cooking oil that has made frying chicken very unpleasant.

 I soldiered on, looking for the holy grail of healing through all manner of treatments. This included numerous rounds of physical therapy, several stretching and strengthening classes, a multitude of many-flavored massage therapies, and some, “Did you light those needles on fire before inserting them?” acupuncture sessions.

 I was at my lowest, literally, because I was now hunched over Quasimodo style, looking for a bell to ring. I swear my face broke out too.

Just when this situation was on my last nerve, I had an epiphany. All I was doing was self-diagnosing myself into another circle of hell. (Dante anyone?)

 If I was rocking a physique that was now a big ‘ole Temple of Inflammation, wouldn’t it stand to reason all this poking, prodding, and manipulating was now part of the problem? Maybe I needed to—oh, what’s that word? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Rest! 

Perhaps the ticking clock I imagined hearing was telling me to slow the eff down.

So, I took a beat to relax. I forest bathed. I read. I meditated. I signed up for another three streaming services. I took time to recuperate. That’s when it happened. I got better. 

I now walk amongst the fully ambulatory, stable and fully recovered, which is more than I can say for my bank account. I do have one big takeaway from this experience that I’d like to share with you.

Acting as your own doctor can cost you almost as much as acting as your own lawyer. No joke.