When I was young, I assumed that when I got old, my body and mind would inevitably go to pot. Inexperienced me thought everyone died of “old age,” so up in smoke wouldn’t be a bad way to go. Who knew my body would start breaking down, piece by piece, in the sunset of my prime.
Every damn day the roulette wheel of pain reveals a new twinge or tweak. My lower back is on five-alarm fire, and my hips don’t lie about the brewing risk of bursitis. One hearty sneeze can pop out three ribs. Speaking off the (rotator) cuff, nightly tossing and turning gives me the cold shoulder. A rolled joint doesn’t spark the same joy.
For decades, I didn’t stretch or work out. When I did, it was strictly so my butt looked good in jeans. Now, Quasimodo is motivated by her lovely lady hump, the result of scroll-iosis and a two year streaming binge. Incorporating protein shakes, pre and post pickleball stretches, yoga, and rollin’ with my foamies prevents me from morphing into the Hunchback of Netflix.
Muscle and bone density loss isn’t humerus. Maintaining flexibility ensures I don’t get bent out of shape. A tendency to tolerate excessive back pain instead of addressing it gets on my last nerve. This Queen needs mobility to get on and off her throne, and to avoid shooting her leg out when a hip cramp joins sexy time for a threesome.
We may eventually need replacement parts, but you don’t have to take a knee. Chew your flintstones, soak up the sun, make a habit of functional fitness. Nobody’s making glue out of us yet. We’re still vibrant, relevant, and livin’ la vida loca. You don’t stop having fun when you get old, you get old because you stop having fun!
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