I did it—I finally reached the age of where I did nothing but walk around in tennis shoes but still managed to hurt myself.

Over the weekend, I enjoyed the rare sunshine for a morning of yard work. I putted around, painting gates, thinning dead branches, even fertilizing the lawn. Not once did I move faster than a leisurely walk.

Once done, I went into the house and took off my shoes. When my bare left foot stepped down it felt like the blade of a knife went right up into the arch of my foot. I crumpled to the ground at the excruciating pain, but nothing showed on the bottom of my foot, not a bruise or goat head thorn—nothing. I even had my husband take a look. My foot looked fine to him. My foot doesn’t care—it still hurts like the dickens. I’m afraid of what ten more years will bring, if all it takes is a little yard work now to bring me to my knees.