Roz Warren wrote this for the NYTimes back in 2012. I ran across it again and it's still a hoot. I figured some folks might enjoy a good laugh for today:

Let Me Tell You What’s Wrong With Me

By ROZ WARREN, October 31, 2012

NY Times Booming column: Living Through the Middle Ages

If you’re over 50, there’s something wrong with you. Actually, there are probably several things wrong with you. Nothing too serious, I hope. But you don’t reach our age without having your own unique set of aches and pains.

I’ve got tinnitus, plus a touch of endometriosis. And from time to time, my back goes out. I’ll rise from my bed in the morning, expecting to have an ordinary day and — I can’t stand up without excruciating pain. Ha! The joke’s on me: back to bed! Bring on the ice pack, heating pad, noodle soup and Percocet.

I’ve become used to all of this. Ringing ears, aching ovaries and a bum back can’t slow me down. Well, actually, they do slow me down just a little. But I cope.

In our youth, when we hurt, it rarely lasted. You would pull a muscle or twist an ankle or fall off a horse on your family’s idiotic dude-ranch vacation (Jews on horseback? Whose bright idea was that?) and be out of commission for a bit. But soon you would be good as new.

The ailments we get these days stick around. Once your back goes out, it will probably keep going out. You know darn well that your first hot flash won’t be your last. And once that floater starts grooving around in your left eye, it’s there to stay. (My sister has even named her floater. She calls it Marvin, after the eye doc who told her there was nothing he could do, so she had better learn to live with it.)

It’s a shame that our boomer bodies are deteriorating. On the other hand, if they weren’t, what would we talk about?

Any boomer social gathering is cause to compare all of our fascinating little health-related glitches. Julie has a bum knee. Janet has arthritis in her neck. The hamstring Steve pulled doing yoga has yet to heal properly. Deb’s bone density stinks. Rick finds it a challenge to practice law with a torn rotator cuff. And my brother-in-law plays weekend basketball with a group that includes a bunch of younger dudes who can seriously whip up on him, resulting in a smorgasbord of injuries to complain about.

In our youth, we smoked pot and talked about the bands we loved. As we became older, we sipped wine and talked about our children. Now that they are grown, we drink green tea (all those antioxidants) and talk about our bone density.

Doctors, cholesterol, coenzyme Q10: we boomers never run out of cool stuff to talk about. At 20, who cared about your blood pressure? At 50, I can’t wait to hear all about it. In fact, I’m all ears. (Mine even ring.)

Chitchat has certainly changed. The answer to “How are you?” used to be “Great: I met a cool guy and didn’t get home till three in the morning.”

Now, it’s “Great: I’ve been doing those exercises my physical therapist recommended, and things are much better.”

What constitutes a spellbinding story has also changed. I used to tell people about the August day of my 16th summer when my best friend and I sneaked out of overnight camp and hitchhiked to Cleveland to see “It’s A Beautiful Day.” It was the first time I smoked pot, the first time I hitchhiked on the Interstate, and the first time I ever kissed a married man.

These days, for a good story, I tell people about the day my sister and I had our colonoscopies together. We had both been putting it off, so we figured we would book back-to-back appointments at the same clinic. The nurses thought it was hilarious. “You two are sisters? Nobody has ever done that before.” My nephew drove us over and picked us up afterward. All we had to do was promise not to tell him anything about it.

Ask Deb to tell you about the miracle of cataract surgery: “When I went in, I could barely see. Hours later, everything was crystal clear. It’s amazing.” This will lead to a lively chat about deteriorating vision. Bifocals, trifocals, rose-tinted trifocals. Trifocals that turn into sunglasses when you step outdoors. And before you know it, you’re talking skin cancer. “You had a squamous? That’s nothing! I had a squamous AND a basal.”

And don’t get us started on Lasik. We can talk Lasik forever.

For my 60th birthday party, I’m designing Bingo cards that will add an extra level of fun to the health chat. Each square will represent a different minor ailment that can plague a Boomer: insomnia. high blood pressure, sinus problems, snoring. When that ailment comes up in conversation, you cover the square. The first person to cover a row wins, except that instead of yelling “Bingo!” you yell, “Oy, my back is killing me!”

If you don’t think that sounds like a hoot, you aren’t old enough to be reading this column.

Of course, in the future, most of these little health glitches will be easily fixable. When Marvin turns up in your eye, they’ll just zap him with the Eyeball Fixer. Get a hot flash and take a pill to ensure that you’ll never have another. No need for a colonoscopy; every five years, we’ll all get brand-new colons at the Colon Replacement Drive-Thru.

But then what will we talk about?

Maybe we’ll discuss the great questions of philosophy. Instead of kvetching about our lower backs, we’ll all be quoting Schopenhauer. Instead of seeking the best physical therapist, we’ll seek the meaning of life.

Until that happy day arrives, we’ll continue to keep one another entertained with tales of our minor medical woes. Because we’re Boomers — everything that happens to us is fascinating.

So: What’s wrong with you?