The last few weeks have been especially rough.  There was one day, in particular, during which the world seemed to be closing in on me:  I couldn't get from point A to B without above average amounts of pain.  I couldn't open jars, write for more than a few minutes at a time, or lock my finicky door.

It certainly doesn't help that the locksmith who installed the lock on my door must have been an ex-convict because he jerry-rigged this thing to be so difficult to lock/unlock that it takes five minutes every time to get the damn key to work.  I guess it's better to be safe then sorry ...

That said, I wasn't going to allow a little bit (OK, a lot) of pain stand in the way of an overbooked social schedule, with parties, dinners and celebrations to attend every day of the week.  The world kicked back into overdrive after the lull of the holidays.

As the week progressed, my limp became more pronounced.  By Friday I was outside of a club, approaching the doorman, and he said, "A man with swagger like that must be important."  It made my day!  I smiled and thanked him, and proceeded downstairs (slowly) but felt as though my pain was not for nothing after a shout out from a giant bouncer like that.

There are worse things in this world, I suppose.

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Last week I traveled to Italy to see what all the hype was about (mainly around the food!).  I got a "pass" from the family Thanksgiving (definitely cleared it first with the senior officers) and traveled abroad to take in the history (about which I am a giant dork) and the pasta (about which I have a borderline eating disorder).

There's something fascinating about Europe and I notice it right away every time I visit.  There is a suspicious lack of people limping around or in wheelchairs.  I can't understand why and I always find it a little unsettling.  Where is everyone with arthritis?  Or with other mobility issues for that matter?!

To prepare for my trip, I conditioned myself with a little bit of extra stretching in the days leading up and sprung for a new pair of comfortable walking sneakers.  Apparently, as an aside, Americans are the only people into the super-white sneakers -- so needless to say I stuck out in my shiny brand new Nike Kicks.  But it didn't bother me a bit because at least I was comfortable.  (And no, I didn't wear a fanny pack.)

The walking was definitely a challenge at times, especially because the roads and sidewalks are so uneven and require a lot more diligence to manage.  In their defense, these roads -- in Rome at least -- are thousands of years old, so I'll cut them a break.

I also talked with some locals about the state of care there and the way they perceived medicine and health care.  It simply confirmed my suspicion that the U.S. is great at a lot of things, but taking care of our sick hasn't been on that list lately -- either here within our system or abroad from a foreigner's perspective.

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This weekend I did something I dread:  I went shoe shopping.  It's different for a guy (like me) because I don't really buy a lot of shoes.  When I do, I stick with them, take care of them, and wear them for years.  So the anxiety hit when I was faced with a decision at Foot Locker about which sneaker pair to buy.

I guess I have a fear of commitment.  For sneakers.  I need to account for a lot of things -- perhaps most importantly, the question of "are these really comfortable?"  Good sneakers go a long way, especially when you're walking miles from the arrival gate to the luggage carousel.  And when you have arthritis in your knees and back, a comfortable pair of sneakers is critical.

But when they're all supposed to be comfortable, and are manufactured in 52,000 colors and styles, that decision is made a little more difficult.

And since Foot Locker employs Ph.D.'s or Ph.D. candidates, their professional advice is based primarily on which basketball star is most popular (today's answer: LeBron James).  As much as I loved Michael Jordan, I am not a fan of the footwear that don his name and emblem.

Now I live with the anxiety of wondering whether or not I made the right decision.  Until I think about the saying that my dad would tell me as a kid:  "I cried when I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet."

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There's ordinary wear and tear of the body -- and there's Disney wear and tear.

The latter is much more painful.

I know this because I spent last week in Florida with my family on a trip to Disney World with the little ones (seeing Disney through children's eyes is so much more fun than as a grown up!).  We wore our pedometers and clocked an average of five (FIVE!) miles a day walking through the various theme parks.

We all remember the commercials about winning the Super Bowl -- and "going to Disney World!" -- but frankly, playing in a football game would hurt a lot less than trekking through a theme park on a steamy August day.

Nevertheless, despite an aggravated back, sore knees, and a light head, the trip was well worth it.  I just wish I had trained ("conditioned?") better before the trip because it definitely was no easy task.

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These have been some Hot August Nights (as the great Neil Diamond once said).  The weather in the New York area has been absolutely brutal -- hot and sticky with a very unstable atmosphere.  This has taken a toll on my body, and I'm ready for the fall.

Or for a fall, whichever comes first.

Part of the problem with humidity is the sweat factor.  No matter what you do -- whether you're in the sun or the shade -- your body sweats like a leaky faucet.  This is uncomfortable on the surface but, for me, the discomfort runs much deeper.

These Hot August Nights have given me headaches, made my joints stiff and achy, and put me in a bad mood.  And I'm not the only one -- over 8 million New Yorkers were pacing the streets, cranky as can be, these past few weeks.

Far be it for me to complain about the heat when there are so many other worthwhile things to complain about.  But sometimes you just need to vent.

I am stoked for the morning I wake up chilly, needing to bundle up in a sweater and scarf (just in case).

Call me crazy.  Actually, just call me arthritic.

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