Next stop: nursing home.

My fiber cereal stash. Further proof that I'm 80 years old. (In my defense, there was a SALE, okay?)

Last night Ryan and I walked down the block to our favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner.

It may have been the third time this week,

but really, who's counting (besides our bank account)?

On our walk back home, stuffed full of beans and cheese,

I started telling Ryan about the rapid deterioration of my body. 

The bones on the top of my left foot have felt bruised for months now,

my knees ache when I do lunges and my chronic back pain just keeps getting

worse and worse. So, as I'm ranting in the middle of the strip mall's parking lot,

Ryan stops. He says he can't breathe and he bends over, trying to catch his breath. 

"Are you having a heart attack?" I joke,
because I'm sensitive and caring and not sarcastic at all.

He kept trying to catch his breath while I wondered

A) Would 911 think I was a moron if I directed them
to the Maria's Mexican restaurant parking lot?

and

B) Is this a sign that we should lay off the Mexican food?

A few seconds later, whatever it was passed and we continued on our

merry little way. Heart attack? Probably not. But it was kind of freaky, either way.

I'm telling you, we're 23 going on 85.

I'm one step away from elderly.

I need a chiropractor and a back massage,
and maybe a wheelchair.