By Christina Carrell in The Mighty.
I was sitting in one of those canvas painting classes, waving a paintbrush back and forth in a very amateur attempt to recreate Monet’s “Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lillies” (spoiler: I’m not an artist and the end result bore little resemblance to the original).
“You’re lucky you’re young,” casually comments the older woman sitting next to me. “You don’t have to worry about arthritis in your hands.”
I knew it was an innocent comment intended as a lighthearted joke, an attempt to be friendly, or even as a compliment of sorts.
But I also knew the observation, however well-intentioned it may have been, was wrong at best and hurtful at worst. I knew all too well that young does not mean disease-free, worry-free, or especially pain-free. I knew pain could strike at any time, and for me, had begun its assault on my body at the ripe age of 20.
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