For years, the first hour out of bed was the worst part of my day.
I'd sit on the edge of the mattress and wait — not because I wanted to, but because my knees weren't willing yet. I'd brace a hand on the dresser to get to the bathroom. I couldn't properly grip my coffee mug until about 8am. By mid-morning I'd loosen up and feel almost normal. But that first hour? Every single day, it was the same reminder that my body had started failing me before I was even awake enough to argue with it.
On the bathroom counter sat my collection of things that hadn't fixed it: prescription Voltaren gel, ibuprofen, two glucosamine bottles, and a menthol tube that just made my skin cold.
I was 63, and the first hour of every day already felt like the hardest part.
What I couldn't work out was this: if I felt fine by lunch, why was the morning always so bad?