Quote of the Day:
“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at closing of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” —Dylan Thomas
About six weeks ago TB woke up sore. You know that kind of sore you get when you’re in pretty good shape, or like when you’re a kid, and you exerted a lot of energy and you wake up the next day sore? Good sore? That ain’t at all what I felt.
Well, actually I DID feel that way. The only problem was, I hadn’t exerted any energy whatsoever the day before. Hell the entire month before, for that matter. I put it out of my head.
Until the next day. It was there again. Again and again, four or five days a week I’m feeling it. I’ve had to face the fact. I’m getting sore from sleeping. Holy crap, that pisses me off. I don’t even hit 4-0 for another month and a half. But long time readers know, I’m an anticipator. Apparently my whole being is, my physical baen as well as my accursed travellinbrain. My body decided to get a head start on the milestone.
It so happened that I was advised twice within the same week of the onset of soreness that I ought to start exercising again. I’m not getting any younger, you know? And coincidence continued to layer upon coincidence. After several years of generally declining or stable weight, I suddenly shot up ten pounds over the course of one gluttonous weekend. Ten freakin’ pounds? I didn’t do anything that bad. Yeah, there were do-nuts and pizza and a few beers even, but come on. Ten pounds? And they stuck? Yeah, that pissed me off too. But contrary to the opinion of almost everyone I’ve ever known, I listen to good advice, even take it sometimes.
And this was one of those times. Hey, forty ain’t dead, right? No need to take all these attacks from my aging bones lying down, right? So out into the hottest part of the day I charged, hundred degree temperatures and hundred percent humidities be damned. I was pissed, I wasn’t scared. I did run, true, but not out of fear–out of rage. For over a month now I’ve been out there struggling, fighting, suffering. What has it gotten me? Well, I’m a damn sight hungrier all the time, so I haven’t drop any pounds. I’m a little happier I guess, since I now attribute that morning soreness to my run the day before, though I still pause occasionally to consider how it makes my shoulders ache. And I was even beginning to make some real progress, feeling the strength in my ever-protesting legs, the tautness of my lungs.
Then last week my hip came disjointed as I tried to extend myself a little too far. I was irritated, but not totally pissed. I was due a few days off and I thought it would be nice to let the body recover. Then today I hit the course with gusto, and new shoes. I felt good, global heating be damned. I was going to easily hit that mark I’d been shooting for last week when the hip gave way. I was oblivious of the pain, the heat, the egg sucking, mentally planning my future, a lengthy, prosperous future, and humming a loop of a Hayes Carll tune I recently heard. When suddenly, a sharp pain shot up through my calf. I tried to walk it off, but it wasn’t a cramp. A pulled muscle, I guess. I stared blankly to the sky, but received only blankness in response. Boy oh boy, am I pissed.
But I’m not beaten. I’m not even dreading my 40th any more. It already came, calendar be damned, like a thief in the night some six weeks ago. What’s done is done. I’ve read on Facebook and heard from friends how great their birthdays are this year, so many I’ve known for so long turning 40 along with me in 2010. They are all handling it with graceful aplomb. They have embraced it, spoken of their joy, of their excitement, of their blessings. Not me, I’m fightin’ it. I’m pissed about it. I don’t like it. And I’m not scared of it any more either. No matter how much pain it continues to inflict. I’ll be back out there next week dammit.
In the meantime, I’m goin’ to Buffett with Little Boy. Take that, 40.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
(laughing) “I never noticed how much gray you’ve got. Boy are you going gray! Well, at least you’re not losing it. Yet.” TB’s very old Dad, about three weeks ago, without any provocation or justification whatsoever