I love the expression, “It’s the new 30.” Or, “It’s the new 40.” And there is truth in those statements. The fitness craze makes us healthier, our heart and muscles stronger. Fashion transcends decades. Uggs, leggings, ballet flats work for any age. And I know a mom or two, including me checking out the junior department for the trendy splash for less cash. We are fit enough to fit, so why not? We can almost dress and look the same. Only a few things give us away.

Insides, no matter how youthful the package, break down. I know for one, knees are forty if they are forty and sixty if they are sixty. There is no new “40” for a fifty-year-old knee unless it is replaced or refreshed. Go to any Physical Therapy office and body parts are worn out as expected. All this getting fit to look and feel healthier takes it’s toll on the old muscles and joints. You have to pay to play!

After surgically fluffing up the padding in my knee, I needed Physical Therapy (PT) to break up all the scar tissue that forms from the disruption. Two of my new BFFs I met at (PT). We are the new 30 but our insides are letting the cat out of the bag. All three of us are go-getters with broken parts. Skiing, tennis and running did us in some how. We feel caged in our newly repaired knees. “This just can’t be!” We are limping but our minds are still racing. We are on the mend together, our legs trying to catch up to our brains. Thankfully physical therapy is also group therapy, a place to commiserate.

“Are you off the meds yet?”

“Can you sleep through the night?”

“The stairs are the worst! Especially down.”

We are so 30 except for the wires.

During one session, we all happened to be icing down at the same time. After a PT guy rubs down your muscles, breaking up scar tissue so your knee will bend like Malibu Barbie without the cracks, you go through a series of stretching and strengthening exercises. The three of us are lined up side-by-side on the PT tables resembling tall lounge chairs soaking up the sun. Underneath a blanket of ice, wires extend from the knees to shock down the swelling from our rigorous session.

We chat about our failing knees and our failing eyesight. One of the gals carries readers with her everywhere, including on top of her head. The other gal-pal and me are clinging to what shreds of reading eyesight we have left. Donna announces, “My parents said to not give into readers. Hold off as long as possible.”

“I know what you mean! I won’t even change the font size on my text messaging.”

“Oh. No. No. NO!”

We know where to draw the line in the sand while we can still see it. The twenty-something workers are what they are, twenty-something; I’m sure they are either snickering or freaking out at our aging concerns.

Can you read it? No cheating.

Readers really are a dead give-away for the New 30. I have yet to succumb but once in awhile, I am paralyzed. Grocery stores are frightening if you can’t read the fine print. I’m a smart shopper, reading ingredients and price per ounce. But those pretty labels are surely hiding something. Faint, tiny letters against a dark background looks cool but lost on me. I can’t buy a product based on its cover. What’s inside? What am I paying for? I don’t like this helpless feeling, like I’m shopping blindfolded or in a foreign country.

How about this one?

Another time I was panicked trying to read an evite on my smartphone. Last minute, I found time to attend an end-of-the-year celebration. I sat in my car as I looked up the address. The evite would not expand no matter how hard my fingers massaged the tiny screen. I could not read the address so prettily printed in petite brown letters. “Seriously. I can’t go because I can’t see!?!” I managed to hold the phone at a certain angle and got the street name and part of the address. I figured it’s a party so a boatload of cars will be parked out front; those I won’t miss. And I could follow my ears, listening for party chatter. Still got hearing and common sense, thank God.  I made it.

I had a great idea to extend my readers-free luck, a golden-ticket idea. Why not create a magnifying glass app? Most of us have smartphones. It WAS a great idea. So great there are oodles of options, some free and some not. (Damn. I got old too late.) The only hang-up is appearing like a high-tech Sherlock Holmes as I pour over a product label or scour a restaurant menu, but at least I am sans the age-admitting spectacles. I’ll just be a spectacle, not wear them.

Manolo Blahniks? Iowa mortgage?

My latest pair of eyeglasses are my first progressives, distance and reading in one lens. I mostly wear contacts so I only update the glasses about every 4-5 years. I think glasses are cool so I opt out of Lasik. Besides, it’s expensive and scary, even for someone that’s been poking her finger into her eyes to apply contacts since she was 16. A finger in the eye is whole lot different from a scalpel.

When I picked out my funky new oversized, sixties frames, I got ready to sign-off on all the paperwork, thinking it will be the usual $400. My jaw dropped when I found out the price more than doubles with progressives. “You mean to tell me little old ladies are running around town with thousand dollar specs?” I cannot fathom the tolerance. I can’t believe to see properly you must wear the equivalent of a designer shoe or a small monthly mortgage across your nose.

I had to double check with my funky-fashionable eyeglass friends to see if I was getting hoodwinked. Answer: To see is to be robbed blind. At this rate, my declining eyesight better freeze up or I dramatically increase my carrot intake. That free magnifying app is a steal! And Lasik suddenly seems affordable.

As much as I believe in and adore the “New 30” or “New 40” expression, I fear another is at its heels. I know it to be true and I can’t say I love it, “Getting’ old ain’t for sissies.” Scarily, I’m only just beginning.