At work the other day, I was absolutely convinced that I was dying. I reached for something benign and pulled a muscle, and I could have sworn that I saw the grim reaper out of the corner of my eye. And it wasn't like I was trying to pick up a fifty pound box of pen caps (Cooter Burger!), or pull a hand cart of boxes. I was reaching for a folder or something.
A few minutes later, I was pretty sure that I wasn't dying, but was still convinced that I was going to be horribly inconvenienced for the rest of my life.
I don't know what it is, but since I turned thirty, my body has become my enemy. I've started to gain weight, it sometimes hurts to go up and down stairs, and tiny little movements can result in the most horrible pain I can imagine.
I am NOT looking forward to 31. God.