Aging is throwing a lot of curveballs at me lately.

First, there were my adventures with the DMV written exam that I wrote about in my March 1o column, which sure resonated with a lot of you!

There’s the constant forgetfulness of names of movies or people I once knew.

Then there’s those pesky things like always having to change my computer passwords, tiny buttons, reading glasses in every room of the house, twisting tight caps off of prescription bottles.

I know I’m not alone.

Having lunch with my girlfriends has become an opportunity to not just share skin care tips, hair styles or grandchildren accomplishments but the comparing of orthopedic updates.

If you know you know: knee replacements, shoulder replacements, hip replacements, back  surgeries, cortisone shots — most attributable to age.

At a certain point, you recognize you’re becoming the aging parents you used to roll your eyes at. My beloved girlfriend posse has a warm camaraderie filled with laughter and oy veys.

I joined the ortho club about six months ago after a recent stumble on one of my grandson’s plastic trucks that I neglected to put away while babysitting. I wobbled on it but did not fall. My arms were flailing trying to stay vertical.

A few weeks later, I woke up with pain in my shoulder. I thought, “OK, here goes. The falling ‘apart part’ has begun.”

Many of  my doctors have retired or jumped ship to concierge medicine, and my new docs are my children’s peers from growing up in Santa Barbara. That’s humbling.

I made an appointment with my young-as-my-son physician, figuring this was the next step. The waiting room was filled with the walking wounded.

Somber is not an understatement. There was not a smile to be found. Body parts in casts, bandages, ortho boots, crutches. Everyone was unhappy and complaining, all shifting about in their seats and wondering what was taking so long.

The young and spry receptionists calmly told everyone in their sugary rehearsed voices from HR training that the doctors were running late. No one felt better about that reassurance.

My X-ray revealed a tear in my rotator cuff. I signed up for physical therapy as instructed and diligently performed all the strengthening exercises for months.

It was OK for a while but the pain has returned. Certain movements like reaching behind me to adjust my undergarments (you can guess which one) or reaching for something on a high shelf, or even trying to put my hair in a ponytail or using the hair dryer with my right arm is painful.

Returning home from a party in Los Angeles recently, the ultimate indignation happened: I could not reach around and unzip my dress.

When leaving for the party, I had help from a friend in the car, but forgot to ask for help on the way home. So there I was, home alone at 11 o’clock at night, stuck.

Just me and the dress. And the zipper.

Kicked off the stilettos, took off the jewelry and the next step was getting out of the dress. The challenge was on.

At first, I laughed at the ridiculousness of my predicament. It sounds easy enough, but not when you have a frozen shoulder.

There I was for what seemed like an eternity contorting myself in every imaginable position to grab a hold of the damned zipper.

With the late hour and no available assistance from a human — or my dachshund, who  looked as perplexed as I felt, barking at me as I was wiggling fruitlessly — I could not believe I was stuck in my party dress.

Trying everything short of the Heimlich maneuver, I pulled the dress lower, pulled it higher. I twisted it one way and then the other.

Did I mention it was tight across the bodice where it got stuck? So over the head was out.

Deflated, I was resigned to just sleeping in the friggin’ dress that, by now, felt tighter than when I left the house with my industrial-strength SPANX undergarment strangling me further.

With the ache in my shoulder throbbing, I found myself laughing and almost crying and perspiring. I did not call 9-1-1 but my frustration was intense and the curse words were flying.

Finally, after what felt like playing a prolonged game of Twister with my kids, I got the dress unzipped.

I sat on my bed in utter exhaustion — and so did my dog — and wondered who won. Me or the dress?

I’ll probably never wear that dress again, cute as it was. Living alone is almost always OK,  but the zipper debacle certainly had me feeling otherwise.

Solution: Have someone unzip your dress part way at the end of the evening before you leave the party. Of course, that means I have to remember to ask!