Yeah, reflecting is like making my cerebrum run a half-marathon…at altitude
Seriously, how does May 3rd get here so freakin’ fast? And when the decades start flyin’ by (at just a tick less the speed of light) I’m forced to make my brain work a lot harder than it’s come to expect. Yeah, reflecting is like making my cerebrum run a half-marathon…at altitude.
And it doesn’t help that as the B-day cake bonfire adds yet another candle tomorrow, I’m closing in on 3-months of no serious exercise (all I’ve really done is walk…compulsively.) Ironically, I’ve always used exercise as a crutch against getting older. I even distinguished physiological from chronological age in the intro of my second book.
I figure that if I can keep up with Millennials while exercising (or even kicking their ass) in spin class, I’m really the same age as they are. And if there were ever a better way for turning on the ol’ reality light bulb, I defy you to come up with one that doesn’t bring on an eye roll. Dang, there goes Millennial Me again.
I’ve loved sports and competition since I was a little kid. After high school, I played full court recreational basketball every day until I was in my early 30s. Then I started playing tennis almost every day; tournaments almost every week. When I strained an Achilles playing doubles, a physical therapist advised I’d just suffered a typical tennis injury “for someone my age.” And no, I still haven’t flipped-off even one physical therapist.
These days, prior to Mr. Hernia Blockage-Repair, I figuratively inflated my youthful self-image by doing crazy stuff like carrying my golf bag and riding a stationary bicycle to music (too often Techno) in a roomful of people and mirrors. And only a few paragraphs ago, I smeared walking as less than serious exercise. Guess I was entitled to do more…as my distorted self-image Millennial self.
So I’m beginning to understand my bias against “just walking” as exercise for someone as young (in their own mind) as me. And denial and snobbery are even a worse ticket than Cruz and Fiorina. With denial, I only have eleven steps to go; snobbery is another issue.
I used to be even more of an exercise snob. It got so bad I even talked mess with patients who did aerobics and even worse…the Avon Breast Cancer March. Predictably, I soon became Mr. Cardio and did the Avon March. I’ve been doing cardio at the gym most days since about 1988. And the Avon hike almost killed me. 25-miles of walking three days in a row is no joke…especially for the cancer survivors who mostly walked ahead of me all of the way.
I’ve learned walking near your birthday can be humbling and inspiring. It may have taken more than a few decades and there are probably harder heads out there somewhere, even if you leave out certain orange-haired Republican Presidential candidates. But I’m cured and I’m not referring to the hernia. Hopefully, I’ve found the cure for my pernicious inflammatory denial and snobbery; it’s called appreciation. I’m gonna appreciate every spin class, each round of golf, and every walk I intend to take when my car refuses to motor anywhere less than a few miles away from home.
I’ve now lived three years longer than my dad, a stellar athlete in his time. And when he was ten years younger than I am today, recovering from an amputation and walking without crutches or a cane, Dad knew who he was and how old he was…and he was and remained the same stellar athlete in my eyes.
And now for a B-day walk: onto the Rose Bowl and back!
