I was talking to an acquaintance the other day and, during the course of a casual conversation, I became jealous of her body. She’s eight inches shorter than me and forty pounds heavier, but I wish I had her good genes.

She spoke rather cavalierly of her good fortune. “I’ve got good, strong bones,” she said, “never had a broken one…and I don’t understand why so many people bitch and moan about their backs all the time. And why do so many people gripe about their knees—what’s up with that?”

I leaned back in my seat to ensure that, should I lose control of one of my hands, it would be far enough away that it didn’t smack her in the head. You see, I’ve been active my entire life, never, ever being sedentary and exercise-less for longer than it took to recover from my annual case of pneumonia. I eat right and do all that other crap too…and where’s the payoff?

I don’t have good, strong bones. “Eat more dairy,” the doctor said, ”do more weight-bearing exercise,” as if a day has gone by since I was old enough to walk that I haven’t had a glass of milk, a piece of cheese, a handful of calcium supplements. And I always go for a long walk if I can’t work out more strenuously.

As a kid, I broke all of my fingers playing softball—it comes with the territory. I was lucky, though, that nothing larger than that was broken…until a few years ago when my leg shattered like the federal budget with Dubya in The White House. So the doctor ordered a bone-density test and tsked under his breath as he read the results. Under ordinary circumstances, it isn’t nice to tell your doctor to fuck off—but I don’t think these were ordinary circumstances…right?

And my back? Never had a problem until a few years ago. And now, if I wear a shoe with a sole less substantial than a good running shoe, my lower back aches with the most-unexpected of spasms. And if my back aches for too long, I walk with a hunch until my neck hurts. So I go to sleep with a heating pad strategically placed here or there, and I leave the house wearing a combination of Bvlgari cologne and Ben-Gay ointment. Surely in some alternate universe, I am absolutely irresistible, but now the only thing I attract is some very confused insects with stingers…oh, and the pity of strangers who think they’re staring at the victim of some debilitating, bug-attracting, stinky illness for which there is no telethon.

And my good knee—well, that’s the one with no cartilage, the one in which the bone-on-bone noise is only audible sometimes. The doctor told me 8 years ago that he figured I’d be able to get 10 years before a replacement. So, if I am doing my ciphering correctly, I’ve got two years to go…and again, that’s my good knee.

So this woman sat across from me, telling me her favorite foods are fried, that she never denies herself anything that tastes good, and how she hates to exercise because she can’t stand to sweat. I listened and seethed. I am only forty. I expected my body would let me down eventually…but I expected it would at least hold out until I was…well…is 41 asking for too much?