Ah, another sunrise. Or is it? Honestly, at this point, distinguishing dawn from dusk involves a complex triangulation of joint pain and the angle at which the cat demands breakfast. Speaking of joints, mine are less "articulating" and more "reluctantly grinding," a sound not unlike gravel being churned in a cement mixer -- a cement mixer, I might add, that's also held together with a rather alarming amount of duct tape.

Yes, duct tape. It's not just for patching leaky pipes anymore, you know. It's become an integral part of my structural integrity. My left knee, for instance, has developed a disconcerting tendency to pivot unexpectedly, a maneuver I've dubbed "The Surprise Charleston." A strategically applied strip of silver, industrial-strength adhesive has, thus far, curtailed its more flamboyant inclinations.

Then there's the lower back. It occasionally emits a sound like a rusty screen door being slammed in a hurricane. Bailing wire, carefully woven through belt loops and connected to a particularly sturdy section of the couch, provides a modicum of lumbar support. It's not exactly ergonomic, and airport security raises an eyebrow, but hey, at least I can still reach the remote. Most days.

And let's not forget the fine motor skills, or rather, the lack thereof. My hands now operate with the precision of a toddler wearing mittens. Typing, once a fluid dance across the keyboard, has devolved into a clumsy peck-and-hope affair. The solution? Fishing line. Thin, surprisingly strong, and discreetly looped around my index fingers and keycaps. It's a bit like operating a marionette, but the results (eventually) spell words. Mostly.

The other day, while attempting the Herculean task of opening a jar of pickles, I felt a distinct twang from somewhere in my right shoulder. I suspect a crucial ligament finally gave up the ghost. My initial thought wasn't pain, but rather, "Blast it, where's the Gorilla Glue?"

My grandson, bless his youthful obliviousness, recently asked me what I did before the "internet thingy." I wanted to tell him about the thrill of a well-researched library visit, the satisfaction of a perfectly crafted handwritten letter. Instead, I just gestured vaguely with a fishing-line-assisted hand and mumbled something about "dial-up and fewer aches." He seemed satisfied.

The truth is, I'm a marvel of makeshift engineering. A testament to the stubborn resilience of the human spirit (and a well-stocked hardware store). I creak, I groan, I occasionally shed small metallic or adhesive fragments, but I persevere. So, if you see an elderly gentleman shuffling down the street, held together by what appears to be the contents of a well-organized junk drawer, fear not. It's just me, embracing the golden years, one carefully applied piece of duct tape at a time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my hip just started whistling. I have some WD-40 and a roll of electrical tape to attend to.

S.A. Tired covers fictitious news and views from an unrealistic perspective for the Eagle Observer. He may be contacted by email at [email protected]. News and views in Spinning the News are claimed by no one but the author.