Last night I got to meet Jerry Stiller, who definitely resides on my list of all-time favorites.

We only met for a few minutes -- enough time to talk about the show we just saw, where we’re living now and how things are going.  What struck me about meeting him was how many times he kept saying, "Just stay healthy."  It was all I could think about as I walked away -- and into this morning as I woke up.

"Just stay healthy."  As if to say that no matter how much fame and fortune you amass, no matter how much your life is a dream come true, when you lose your health ... everything slips between your fingers.  And coming from Frank Costanza, that resonated with me.

When you have arthritis, you can appreciate the subtle upward and downward ticks that life takes, whether it’s on a morning when you wake up in worse pain than when you went to sleep, or after chaperoning a 6 year-old Gymboree birthday party.

"Just stay healthy" is officially the best -- albeit hardest -- advice I’ve ever gotten.

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In a snow emergency, you'll find one thing in New York City:  some tough cookie seniors walking around.

Last week, New York City (where I live) got dumped with a TON of snow.  It doesn't happen very often, but when it snows ... it snows heavily.  A few hours after the storm obliterated the city (turning it into a serene, pretty and QUIET place), I laced up my boots, zipped up my jacket and journeyed out into the polar ice cap to investigate the damage.

I was amazed to see one thing in particular:  white snow.  (Usually it's yellow or black by the time I get to it.)  I was also amazed to see the number of senior citizens -- we're talking really old people -- going about their day with their coming and going.  That takes a lot of nerve, in my opinion, and it's reason #529 that New Yorkers are tough cookies.

Here I was, nervous that I'd fall on my butt or take an embarrassing spill trying to cross the street -- and yet these 70-to-80-year-olds were trekking through the snow complete with a D'Agastino plastic shopping bag covering their frosted hair.

I thought to myself no wonder most people their age go to Florida in the winter and then reflected on just how many people didn't and who, instead, braved the elements to get to the store or the restaurant or anywhere else they were going.

How they do it is a mystery to me.  But the fact that they're still up and at it really inspired me.  I should only be that stubborn (and foolish?) when I'm that age!

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There are two types of volunteering:  the kind that helps make the world a better place ... and the kind in which you tell the gate agent you'll accept a travel voucher in exchange for giving up a seat on an overbooked flight.

While both leave you feeling incredibly good -- especially when your travel plans are flexible and you were smart enough not to check any luggage -- the former (helping the world) has a lasting effect on your mind, body, and spirit.

I found a new kind of volunteering lately, one that's my speed and incorporates one of my favorite things in the world:  laughter.  Like the old saying -- "If you like your job, you never work a day in your life" -- the best kind of volunteering doesn't feel like work and is something I have enjoyed doing:  spending time with a senior citizen on weekend afternoons.

I go to her house and we talk about life and she tells me stories from "the old days" -- which are extremely entertaining.  She knows she's a pistol, and has impeccable timing when she delivers a joke or tells a funny story.  It's what I love about spending time with her -- I always leave happier than when I got there.  And I know she does, too.

Everyone should volunteer.  The world would be a better place if people gave back with their time or their skills.  While past volunteering has taken me to the side of the FDR Drive in midtown Manhattan to clean up garbage (prisoner style!) or in to children's wings of hospitals to juggle -- hanging out with Ruth and making one another laugh is just as much a good deed.  A good deed at my own speed.

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This past week was either the end of an era or the beginning of a new one, depending on your point of view.  I joined a softball team.  But not your everyday-after-work softball team -- I joined a club team comprised of "active" men and women in their 40s, 50s and, yes, 60s.

Finally, a team game I can play in, feel good about, and look like a young all-star.

It's like the old saying, "If you want to look thin, hang out with large people."  Well, if you want to feel good with arthritis, play softball with people 45 years older than you.

The problem became pretty apparent, however, that after being sidelined for all of these years, I totally over-did it.  Words aren't adequate to describe the level of soreness that I still feel, an entire week later.  I tore things, shifted things, ripped things, dislocated things.  It was a mess.  The 63-year-old third baseman made me feel like a moron -- he said, "You better stretch kiddo," and I said, "I did, I did."

Well, I didn't.  And I'm feeling it today.  Pretty annoying.  But, despite the pain, it felt great to be out there.  Kind of corny, of course, but I'm still looking forward to our next game.

And, for the record, we lost 15-1.

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This weekend, I'll admit, I was a bit hungover. Saturday night -- deemed "Margarita Night" by the gang -- went late and loud. As little Dorothy said to Toto, "We're not in Kansas anymore," -- so I said to my body: "I'm not a kid anymore."

This was (painfully) obvious in the aftermath of my more-alcohol-than-water experience.

Anyone can kick a hangover. It requires a little bit of Gatorade, lots of water and some seriously greasy food (these are the things you pick up in college...).

The problem -- as I experienced firsthand for the first time in a long time -- is that the body (especially one with arthritis) suffers as a whole. I felt as though I was beat up with a baseball bat, thrown down a flight of steps, kicked in the groin and made to sit through the entire movie Gigli -- all at once. It was horrific!

I am never going to do that to my body again. I really felt like I abused myself (though at the time it felt quite the opposite), and the consequences have become too dire. Advil helps the headache, but even two days later I still feel sore in my hips, weak in the knees and creaky in the fingers.

Has it really come to this? Is it true that margarita is Spanish for "entire week of pain"?