I have tendonitis in my hamstring. Or that’s what the doctor thinks. I have an appointment with a physical therapist this week for a full evaluation. I’m not looking forward to it. I try to avoid medical things as much as possible, not because I distrust doctors, but because my life is full of them. When it’s a life requirement to see a doctor every 6 months, it makes it a lot harder to voluntarily make an appointment for other stuff.
The result of my procrastination is that I’m in a fair amount of pain, and can’t really do much running. This is too bad, not only because the weather is finally getting to the point where running outside doesn’t feel like a punishment, but because I have recently discovered that when it comes to maintaining the shape of me, I have to do more. It takes more effort to keep the same results. I work harder, and often, I accomplish less.
I think that means I’m old.
Last night, I was moaning about my leg, and my husband was moaning about HIS legs. He was recently diagnosed with bursitis, a painful inflammation in his hips, and he had his own round of physical therapy a few months ago. So there we were, moaning about our aches and pains, and we laughed, because 10 years ago, such a conversation would have never taken place.
A good friend of ours, who is just over 50 and is active and energetic, is getting TWO new hips next month. TWO! He’ll have to use a walker for a few weeks after the surgery, and then spend his life explaining to the TSA that his concealed weapon is actually in his hips.
Yup, old and creaky. That’s us. I always think of myself as a young woman, but I’m realizing that, um, no, I’m not really as young as I once was.
I suppose there are some good things about getting older. I dress better than I did in high school. My hair is cuter, and my make-up is better. I see things a little clearer, and have a better understanding about the way the world works, and more compassion for the people in it. When my 3rd grader comes home despondent about how kids at school weren’t playing fair at kick-ball, I say a silent prayer of gratitude that I don’t have to worry about who to play with at recess anymore. And my husband points out that if for any reason he ever has to navigate the dating scene again, somebody should just shoot him to put him out of his misery.
I was in the changing room at the Y last week, getting ready to swim with my daughter, and a woman there was lamenting her posterior. Her own 4 year daughter old had told her that her butt was flappy. “I have a flappy butt!” she cried, turning to me, half laughing, half despairing. Well, I couldn’t help but check out her backside, and indeed, it could be described as flappy. But she pointed out that she was 42, had given birth to 4 children, and could still run a 5k in 26 minutes. We agreed that she should be grateful that her body worked as well as it did, and that she was as strong as she was (And she did look strong. I mean, can YOU run a 5k in 26 minutes? I can’t). In essence, she understood that while she was getting older and her body didn’t look like the way she wanted it to, she was still a vibrant, strong, beautiful woman.
But as we walked to the pool together, she said to her teenage daughter, “Hey, will you watch the little ones? I need to swim some laps, to work on my flappy butt.”
How do you feel about getting older? Is it difficult, or liberating, or both? What things do you miss about being young, and what things are you looking forward to?
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