Literature, I am sorry to say, has failed me.
One of the jobs of art, and particularly fiction, is to illuminate the world for us, to give us a taste of someone else’s experience, or a foretaste of what ours might be further down the road of life. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.
Based on my reading, I figured, “Okay. Getting older means getting stiff, having aches and pains, losing some hearing. Wrinkles, gray hair. Got it. I’m ready.” Or rather, I was not ready, but it’s not as if I had a say in the matter.
But we need some serious updating in our fiction, people, on the matter of aging. ‘Cause nobody mentioned that it might involve a prescription for a medication that must be taken on an empty stomach, first thing in the morning, with so much water that you slosh when you walk, after which you must not eat, drink or bend over for half an hour.
No, nothing in fiction prepared me for this.
(Oh, it’s Actonel, which heads off osteoporosis. And at least I only take it once a week.)