WELCOME TO YOUR 70's BODY

This website is called 'Seventy Something' so it's time to review what it's like to be seventy something.

Your 70s is a magical time. Not in the sparkly, unicorn sense—but in the “How did I go to bed perfectly fine and wake up with THIS?” sense. Because somewhere around this decade, your body stops sending memos. It no longer gives warnings. It simply introduces new ailments like surprise houseguests who arrive unannounced, unpack immediately, and show no intention of leaving. You wake up each morning conducting a mental inventory. Let’s see…Left knee? Complaining. Right shoulder? Mutinous.Hands? Apparently, unionised and on strike. And you haven’t even stood up yet.

In your 70s, it is perfectly normal—expected, even—to wake up with a brand-new ache that was not present yesterday. You didn’t fall. You didn’t lift anything heavy. You didn’t wrestle a bear. You simply slept. Aggressively, it seems.

Carpal tunnel? Oh yes. Your hands now tingle like they’ve been plugged into a faulty toaster.

Trigger finger? A delightful condition where your finger locks itself in place like it’s refusing to cooperate unless paid overtime. Bursitis?A mysterious ailment that announces itself with deep, throbbing pain and a smug sense of permanence. And let’s not forget bladder leakage—because nothing says “golden years” like planning your outings based on toilet proximity and sneezing with genuine fear. Oh, the joy.

Your body, once a reliable vehicle, is now more like an older European car: elegant, full of stories, but requiring constant maintenance and producing new noises you’re advised to “just keep an eye on.”

There is a sound your knee makes now. No one knows what it is. Doctors nod thoughtfully and say things like, “Well, at your age…”—which is never followed by good news. And the doctors. Bless them. Every appointment feels like spinning the Wheel of Diagnosis. You list your symptoms. They add two more you hadn’t noticed. You leave with a pamphlet, a referral, and a vague sense that gravity is no longer your friend.

The cruellest part? You’re not actually doing anything wrong. You’re not skydiving. You’re not running marathons. You’re opening jars. Turning door handles. Sleeping in what was, until recently, a perfectly acceptable position.

In your 70s, sleep itself is a risky activity. You can go to bed feeling fine and wake up feeling like you lost a bar fight with the mattress. Your neck has opinions now. Your hips demand negotiation. And pillows—once soft and innocent—are now either too flat, too firm, or actively hostile.

Mornings involve what can only be described as the warm-up. You don’t just get out of bed. You assemble yourself. There’s stretching. Grimacing. A few experimental steps to see which limb is going to betray you today. You move cautiously, like a person defusing a bomb, whispering, “Okay… okay… we’re good… oh no, we are NOT good.”

And yet—here’s the twist—you’re still you. You still laugh. You still have opinions. You still get annoyed at trivial things and delighted by ridiculous ones. You just do it now while wearing wrist braces, knee supports, and occasionally googling, “Is this normal or am I dying?”

Your 70s teach you humility. They teach you patience. They teach you the value of comfortable shoes. They teach you that health is not something you own—it’s something you lease, and the terms change without notice. But they also teach you resilience. Because, despite the aches, the leaks, the clicks, the pops, and the ever-growing list of things you “manage,” you get up. You adapt. You swap speed for wisdom and denial for humour.

And humour is essential. Because if you don’t laugh when your finger locks mid-gesture or your bladder betrays you during a coughing fit, you’ll cry—and crying, frankly, puts pressure on the bladder.

So here we are. In our 70s. Held together by physiotherapy exercises, Voltaren, and sheer bloody-mindedness. Our bodies may be falling apart in creative new ways, but our spirits? Still sharp. Still curious. Still capable of finding the absurd joy in muttering, “Well, that’s new,” as we reach for another heat pack.

Oh, the joy indeed.