Bended Spider

When my daughter was little, and still learning English after coming from Russia, piece together sentences that were part poetry, part stand-up comedy. One morning, she woke up, stretched, and said: “Mama, I feel like a bended spider.”

And honestly? Same, kid. Same.

I didn’t know then that her little phrase would become my personal weather report. “How’s it going today?”

“Oh, you know. Bended spider with a chance of Advil.”

Because somewhere past fifty, you realize: if you’ve got two of something: knees, hips, shoulders, one is going to act up. The other is just resting before it does. Your back throws tantrums. Your neck forgets how to turn left. And stairs? Stairs are now your nemesis.

But here’s the thing: that “bended spider” keeps moving. A little hunched, maybe. A little slow to unfold. But still weaving, still climbing, still stubbornly alive.

Which is kind of beautiful, isn’t it?