I’m Not Dead Yet!  (Am I?)

As I awoke this morning, a lot of thoughts hit my mind.  I usually lie in bed for a bit and get myself mentally prepared to face what’s ahead of me.  It’s Monday – the zombie of weekdays.  It’s Bailey’s last week of school and there is a lot going on.  We’re getting closer to the end of the month, which is the busy time at work.  Alicia and I go on our 15 year anniversary cruise in 2 weeks so there is mental planning, physical planning and financial arrangements to be made.  Bailey has horse lessons this afternoon so I need to stagger supper for G and the rest of the family.  Just run of the mill thoughts as I prepare to rise.  

Then, as that moment to rise comes, it hits me.  I am getting freaking old.  My body has pain in places I didn’t think actually had feeling receptors.  Muscles that I didn’t know existed ache.  My body is starting to show all of the signs of disregard and abuse I’ve given it over the last 40 years.  And you’d better believe I have given it a fair share of nicks and bruises along the way.  I have never really regarded my body as a temple, unless you consider Buddha your religious go to.  In that case, it’s masterful.

I have constantly battled weight issues throughout my life.  Glimpses at photos from my high school annuals until now show a veritable hodgepodge of chubby, skinny, fat and even toned at one time.  Those were a sweet couple of weeks.  I was a svelt 165 at graduation and am now a deceptively striking 225.  I’m on a 60 pound per 20 year pace, or 3 lbs per year depending on how you look at it.  Here’s the conundrum.  I don’t really care about the weight itself.  I don’t have body issues and don’t really spend any time comparing myself to the next guy that may be 300 lbs or may be a jacked 195 cross fitter. That’s honestly not an issue with me and I am completely comfortable in my own skin.  The issue now is the slow breakdown of this shell that carries me around.

I’m positive it’s a combination of factors.  My number one suspect though is age.  I know that I’ll one day just be a heap of stretched muscles and tendons and cracked bones and worn down appendages.  I can accept that.  But I’m not quite ready for it.  I started being a walking trauma center at an early age.  By the age of 5, I had broken my collar bone, sliced my head open playing on a racecar that was a pile of metal, bit my tongue almost clean in two after a dive down a flight of stairs, broken my toes in a dresser climbing incident, swallowed various toys and almost OD’d on some Tylenol.  Oh and my loving auntie Ann smashed my hand in a car door at Penny Pinchers, oh the irony.  Now I know all kids go through various stages of illness and injury but I caused a 6 year gap between me and my brother because my parents just didn’t know if I would make it and didn’t want to have 2 wreckless nut jobs running around the house.I leveled off a bit when I hit my teen years.  With the exception of a busted up elbow from pitching, I limited my injuries to bruises from being hit by Jason Lee fireballs and sprained ankles from playing too much basketball.  But nothing hospital inducing…..until my infamous nose restructuring when I was 22.  That set me back a bit and gave me a whole new appreciation for rebounding.  As an adult, I’ve had the occasional meniscus tear, shin bruises from ground balls, a broken finger or two and a fouled up back from my periodic scorpions.  But again, I’ve avoided the hospital since the nose.

What all of this has done is taken a toll on me over the course of the last 25 years.  We played doubleheader kickball games yesterday and it hit me that I was the oldest player on the field.  I’m the oldest player on my Gordon city league team, 2nd oldest on my coed team, 3rd oldest in basketball and 4th oldest at SOTC (and won’t ever be the oldest thanks to Barry).  It really doesn’t seem like that long ago when I was the young buck on all of the squads.  But those days are gone.  And I am left with memories of what I once could do. My mind still tries to do those things but my body just laughs.  That’s when the scorpions attack.I took those days for granted.  I laughed at my elders for not being able to hold up over several hours of competition.  I recall an evening Petey and I stopped at Winn Dixie after softball so I could replinish my Little Debbie supply at home.  I was a solid 23 probably and Petey said, “You know, one day you aren’t going to be able to stuff those in your face this late at night.”  He’s a true wordsmith.  I have defied that warning and have been able to continue that hobby.  Which is one of the leading contributors to the 60 lbs in 20 years.  

But the fact that the statement was so unthinkable makes me realize just how old I’ve really become.  I eat as I please still because I believe that life isn’t worth living if you aren’t actually living while you’re here.  I’m going to croak one day.  I don’t want to look back on that day and say, “I wish I had one more cheesy bread from Harvest Moon.”  Of course, I still have to try to cut out eating late, cut out the 4th meal from Taco Bell as much as possible and limit the M&M’s.  If I didn’t, I’d be 3 bills by now and my athletic career (as questionable as it is) would be over now instead of having one foot in the ditch and another on a banana peel.

Which brings me to the real question of what happens when it is really over.  I keep thinking that by the time it’s over, I’ll need a walker.  Then I have mornings like today where I wonder if I’ll be able to walk from my desk to the printer.  That’s a treacherous 40 feet when your hips and knees don’t want to cooperate.  Hopefully, I’ll leave some impression on the younger guys, my teammates.  I have always tried to be a good teammate.  I try to keep everyone positive, I try to be dependable.  I try to avoid conflict when possible and (with the exception of kickball) try to let the umpires do their job without my input.  I’ve tried to do it the way Dewey taught me.  The right way.  

I know the day is coming.  I’m closer today than I was yesterday.  I’ll be even closer tomorrow.  But I’ll be at Sherwood ready to play 2 more softball games and will once again use my body as an object to slow down a softball.  I’ll wake up Wednesday and wonder why I keep putting myself through it.  I’ll have a few days to heal and I’ll be back on the kickball field.  That’s the only way I know to keep going. If I stop, it’s all over.  There are no layoffs anymore.  When this train stops, it’s parking in the station.  The only way to keep going is to never get rid of the aches.  If I ever get back to where my back doesn’t hurt while I sleep or my knees don’t hurt when I get out of bed or my hip doesn’t hurt when I pick up a toy off of the ground, I know I’ll never go back to the pain.  What kind of idiot would I be?  So, for now, I’ll enjoy the daily reminders of my physical failings and I’ll keep pushing myself to be the best elder statesman I can be.  I’ll never be remembered as a home run hitter or speedster or dunk machine.  But maybe when it’s all over, my old teammates will say, “that guy never stopped playing.  He never gave up and he was fun to be around.”  Because I can tell you, when my playing days are over and Alicia gets me 24/7, the compliments won’t be near as plausible.  As a matter of fact, she will probably finish the job and cripple me with a kayak paddle.  And I’ll probably deserve it.  Until then though, I’ll be on the field the very next chance I get.  See you there!

J-Dub