As a writer, I often stare into oblivion, hoping that some idea comes flying out of the blue, penetrates my mind and speaks: “This is it! The Jackpot! You’re really gonna knock ’em dead with this one!”

Recently, in such a self-induced stupor, I chanced to look down at my hand and was surprised to see my left forefinger (the one I use when arguing with an imaginary friend) had morphed into some kind of gnarly, lumpy, blunt claw, all swollen at the top joint. Meanwhile, my right pinky, having ballooned in the middle, looks like an unhappy jumbo shrimp trying to straighten itself out.

Then there is the grinding and crunching sounds that come with the strain of lifting anything heavier than a glass of beer. I’m reminded of the golf ball-sized lump fixed upon my shoulder blade that was planted 40 years ago when I left my ’63 Dodge Dart in neutral, then tried to stop it from rolling down the driveway. The good news was I got flattened by the open door and not the tires.

Of course I am not alone in paddling down this stream of malformation. I have a friend who’s got it bad on her toes. When she takes off her sock, it’s like spilling a bag of ginger roots. Yet we find ways to cope, or at least try to. A guy I know gets creative by performing hand shadows on the wall for his grandchildren; it’s like a parade of twisted dancing baby dinosaurs. Li’l Stego, Bronto Alto, Tantrum Rex, etc.

Art Ritis, some of us call him. Sometimes he’s out front, noticeable, for everyone to look at, and think to themselves, “oh my, I bet that hurts” or “I wonder if they make special gloves for him,” or “didn’t he used to be a lot taller…” Art takes on many shapes and forms, none of which are aesthetically pleasing.

Oftentimes, he lurks within, hidden beneath the skin, working insidiously on the hips or back. Sometimes he’s dormant for relatively long periods of time, like a sleeping bear. He is unpredictable, and you wonder what wakes him up – in what motion or activity did you engage to rile him? If you knew, you might avoid doing that for the rest of your life. Lots of people blame the weather, the changes in temperature or humidity. I have no idea how that might work … Regardless of wishful distractions, you know he’ll be back.

No matter how much turmeric or ginger tea or Tylenol or Advil or Granny’s Special Potion you consume, no matter how many times you let a physical therapist run you through the gauntlet, no matter how many pricks and punctures you receive on your skin, no matter how many laps you swim in the pool, old Art will be waiting in the shadows ready for a sneak attack.

Your last resorts are the knife and the needle, and even they don’t last forever.

It’s true that we are a conspicuous lot. Yet ours is a largely private cross to bear, and we are hip to the bogus TV commercials that promise miraculous recovery from other ailments. We are not like the singing brigade of Wegovy clients who march in celebration of their millions of pounds of collective weight reduction. Nor are we like the happy beach-going skin-baring Skyrizzi or Rinvoq users. The truth is, we are pretty much too old to go around singing and marching in the streets, too out of shape and wrinkled to go prancing along the beach.

No. Such galavanting and commingling is not for us. We are the unfortunate hosts of the evil Art Ritis. We go it alone, knowing full well that the only big relief comes under the knife or through the needle. We cuss and complain. We repeat the same old lines over and over again. Yet we make our procession through the remains of the day, each with our unique gait (meaning awkward limp).

My plan is to fight Art to the end. I’ll be like the Black Knight in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” If I can’t grip my sword or make a fist, I’ll attack with my elbows. If the elbows fail, I’ll kick until my knees fall off. And if no remaining appendages are up to the task, I’ll bite at him! So far I’ve never heard of anyone getting arthritis in their teeth.

Pete Howard, a musician, writer, teacher, and painter, lives in Dunkirk.