
Mark stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his favorite t-shirt and let out a long, exasperated sigh. “This is just perfect,” he muttered, running his hand through his thinning hair. “Twenty years ago I could play basketball for hours, now I throw out my back reaching for the cereal on the top shelf.” He stretched gingerly, feeling the familiar twinge in his lower spine that had become his constant companion since turning forty-five. The irony of his shirt choice wasn’t lost on him as he contemplated the growing list of daily aches and pains: his creaky knees that predicted weather changes better than the meteorologist, his shoulder that protested every golf swing, and his neck that seized up from sleeping wrong on his supposedly ergonomic pillow. “When did my body become a walking complaint department?” he wondered aloud, though deep down he knew the shirt was both a badge of honor and a cry for help—a middle-aged man’s way of announcing to the world that he’d officially entered the phase of life where comfort trumped style, and ibuprofen had become a food group.