Earlier this week I hurt myself. I have no idea what I did but it appears to have happened overnight. It is my left wrist. I am right-handed. Still, the pain derailed me for days.
I have apparently become a person who can cripple herself simply by sleeping on her hand wrong. It’s not just the normal aches and pains of aging that make me question myself. It’s that they are such weird pains.
For most of 2018, the arch of my foot hurt. Just the arch. What is that about?
I bought some shoe inserts, gave up my love of cheap, flat flip flops, and eventually the pain went away. All it takes, however, is one flirtation with a cheap shoe and I limp for days.
Even on my best day, I have now become the person who makes a loud, involuntary groan if I need to bend down to pick anything up. Forget crawling under a desk or table to retrieve anything. If my pen rolls under a piece of furniture that pen is thus dead to me. Unless the cat bats it back out, it will never be seen again.
I dropped my keys behind the radiator and legitimately waited for BoyWonder to get home and fish them out. I certainly wasn’t going to lay on the floor to retrieve them myself. I used to roll around and play games with this boy on the floor all afternoon when he was a baby. Now I stand in the doorway and say, there, a little to the left, now reach further back.
I have never been what one would call a fitness buff. I’m more of a pie buff. I am the person behind the old joke that if you see me running you better start running as well. I’m definitely being chased by something.
A few years ago I realized that I could no longer race or even jog up the stairs from the first to the third floor. When I do that, I am often left gasping for breath. If I happen to be on the telephone at the time, the caller on the other end has every reason to be concerned that I might collapse.
Each time this happens I think how badly I need to work out. Then I remember that I do not like to work out. I will stroll. I will swim. I will enjoy myself doing things like that until the very moment they become workouts that one must schedule specifically go get in shape. Then I’m over it.
To be fair my yoga pants did finally make it to yoga earlier this year. I even enjoyed myself. I definitely felt more limber and loose. Then the yoga instructor moved away (I swear I had nothing to do with that!).
I haven’t found a good yoga class since. By this, I mean a class held within ten minutes of my house and not on weekend mornings. Everyone seems to be trying to make things happen on Saturday mornings. On Saturday morning, I enjoy quiet contemplation and coffee. Not lying on floors stretching with strangers.
People often ask what I am doing on weekends. My preferred answer is nothing. They then suggest activities. I am then forced to gently reiterate that they must have misunderstood me. When I say I am doing nothing on Saturday, that is because I have specifically set aside time to do nothing.
Some call my resistance to weekend activities lazy. “Lazy” is a strong word. I prefer selective participation. Namely, I prefer not to take part in things that require waking to an alarm clock on my day off. I am an adult. If I am blessed with longevity, then I am a middle-aged adult.
One of the joys of my adulthood is realizing that I can, within reason, quite literally do whatever I want. It has taken me half a century to embrace the fact that most of the time what I really want to do is stay home. I would suggest that I would like to sleep more but we have already determined that when I do that, I only end up hurting myself.
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