Shower revelation du jour: My knees aren’t 100% debilitating anymore! Woot! My neck and shoulders though? They have morphed from semi-lithe in their movement to feeling and functioning like granite slabs. I am rock-solid, but not in the hot in-your-20s rock-solid kind of way. No, no. My upper torso and neck hurt so unbearably that I’m a danger behind the wheel of my car. I worry I cannot rotate my head, and thank the Ford Motor Company for its cameras and sensors. Holy crap, you guys, what the hell is happening to me? PS–I say “Woot” about 7 times per day, and I just became painfully aware of my overuse of it. Pretty much guarantees I’m moving on to my next verbal tic. Funny how our brains have a way of taking care of such matters, no? Anyway.
Sitting among the team dads at Friday night’s baseball practice, I listened to one of the guys lament how much time it’s been since he’d played little league himself. He announced his shock and awe at having played ball himself at the diamond at which the kids played Thursday evening. “I can’t believe it’s been twenty-five years since I played at Wilson,” he added wistfully. His next utterance contained the words, “I can’t believe I graduated high school in 2000.” Freakin’ Methuselah, that guy.
When you have babies as old as I did when I had mine, you don’t know you’re the old one until your child’s first day of K4. I never felt as conspicuous in my age than at that moment. Some of my children’s friend’s parents were oh, about 21 when their children began K4. This is not to suggest teen pregnancy is the most stable path to starting a family; it is a path however, a not uncommon one at that. My parents were 21 and 22 when I was born, not atypical in their generation, and I did OK. I’m not blind, so I know I’m pretty much always the oldest mom in the room. Sometimes it’s a little more in your face though. Like last Friday night for example, when another of the dads, in an ostensibly “helpful” effort to point out that Dad A wasn’t that old, complained that he’d graduated in 1991. I don’t even know how I managed, but I remained silent. As much of a big mouth as I am, sometimes being the only girl among men and boys keeps me mum. You learn a lot by listening, by the way.
A blogger friend of mine writes about being a grandmother. She’s my age. *ouch*
It’s OK that I’m old–any day above dirt is a good one, right? Obviously I’d rather be old than among the not still breathing, but when did being begin to hurt so much?? The kick in the ass at 44 was to learn my vision was, in a word, awful. Thinking I might benefit from readers, I learned instead that I had astigmatism, and was, BOOM, blind as a bat. I ran a few 5Ks at 45, and felt quite accomplished until I couldn’t walk from this hip thing I’d developed. The last few years have brought the joy of hot flashes into my life, and super swell coordination that leaves me falling down (and/or up) the stairs with frequency enough that my children barely even look up anymore. And now, just when my knees allow me to come off the injured reserve, I’m a menace to pedestrians and motorists because I got this achin’ back. Get off my lawn too, sonny! Oy.
Any day above dirt IS a good one, true. Sure, it takes me a little longer to
bound from claw my way out of bed these days, but that’s better than the alternative. Plus, I’m starting to believe that having a kitchen in the basement is good for my cardiovascular/neuromuscular health (read: my ass). Hey, speaking of neuromuscular health, my kid has his semi-annual visit to the neurologist next week, and I haven’t even puked yet. Score one for the old lady, huh?