You want some fries to go with that shake?

Well... ladies and gents... this is it. I have decided that I am officially old.

In approximately 37 days (but who's counting?), I'm going to be 27. But the number... well, the number is not what bothers me one bit.

I'm not a big numbers gal. I can't remember what I made on the SAT, I'm not sure what a gallon of milk costs, and I went 26 and a half years of my life without owning a scale. Furthermore, I don't care how much money you make, as long as it's enough to make you happy and support your habit.

Really, I think there are only two numbers I think about on a regular basis. 5, because that's the time I aim to leave the office everyday, and 8, because if I get any fewer hours of sleep than that, I'm a cranky-meanie-whiney-pants. And you know who likes a cranky-meanie-whiney pants? I'll give you a hint. It's the same amount of people who "put Baby in a corner."

But I digress. Let's get back to the point at hand: My old age and the fact that this old gal ain't what she used to be.

I base this statement on one thing and one thing only, and here's the story.

I went dancing on Saturday night. Nothing fancy-- I didn't salsa or tango, though there were likely elements of those moves somewhere in the mix when we started doing the Cuban (aka Cupid) Shuffle.

No, I went out with my peeps and we did some straight-up, old fashioned booty dancing. If you are confused, I suggest you go here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Booty+Dance

Today, my friends, is Wednesday. And what night did we go out? Saturday. Saturday night... to Wednesday morning. And do you know what? MY friggin' HIP hurts. I have had all these days to recover, but dog-gone-it, I think I threw something out.

I realized I had done something very, very wrong on Sunday afternoon when I went to the mall. Walking across the sporting goods store, I felt something in my left hip lock up. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Ok, Apple, walk it out," I told myself. But I couldn't. Right there in the middle of the sports bras, I had to stop walking and take a few deep breaths. Son of a... I felt like I had a peg leg that I had to drag behind me. Not cool.

Carry that feeling over into this morning, when I almost tripped walking into work because my left leg didn't want to cooperate with my brain.

Now I'm sitting here in my lovely little ergonomic chair thinking... seriously? When did this happen to me?

I am miffed. And I refuse to go down without a fight. Notice to my joints: it's on!!!