I’m old. I know my age. I accept my age, but getting old really stinks some times. Sometime last year, I wore a pair of tennis shoes too long (as in way past when I should have replaced them) and ended up tearing a ligament in both of my feet. One healed on its own, the other didn’t. After two cortisone shots and six weeks in a boot, I’m still not 100 percent.
So you’d think I’d take some precautions going forward–stop being so cheap and replace my shoes, eat right, exercise. I’m good on those fronts, but this weekend I was feeling better. Out of the boot, on the lake with my family and some of the kids’ friends, I couldn’t let the kids have all the fun on the water. I grew up skiing so surfing behind the boat should have been a piece of cake. Except it wasn’t, and now I write this blog post from my home away from home–our local urgent care–with shooting back and leg pain.
My youth is over. I give up. I surrender to adulthood. Give me meds and a comfy place on the couch. That smell of Ben Gay is coming from me. I’ll pack my purse with hard candy and drink bourbon with a splash of water every day at five like my grandmother. Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself and it will pass. Growing old stinks, but as someone wise recently reminded me, it’s better than the alternative.
I’m tapping out, Coach. It’s long past time. By Tuesday I’ll be better, but for today I’m moping around. With my meds. But not bourbon. I don’t like bourbon. Won’t you join me?