The signs of time passing are all around. The sun setting earlier in the afternoon sky. The leaves covering the sidewalk in front of the house. An extra shiver in the morning waiting for the shower to warm up.
And with that chill in the air, the bones creek a little more, the muscles ache a little longer. If I was a car, the sticker in my windshield would tell me it is time for an oil change.
Ponce De Leon set out to find the fountain of youth centuries ago. I’m pretty sure he got old looking.
I could have used a fountain of youth this weekend.
Woke up like a school boy full of spit and vinegar. I felt alive with the adrenaline of youth pumping through my capillaries, so I put on some old, ripped work out clothes.
I look like a 1980’s fashionista who has been run over by a wrinkle truck.
So I pop down to the work out club and climb aboard the elliptical. Hands swinging, feet rocking, heart monitor spitting out a solid 155 beats per minute. Sweat is dripping and I’m rocking the machine to the beat of Rage Against the Machine. 30 minutes later, I’m panting like a school girl who has just seen Justin Bieber come out of the shower.
My buddy texts me and says; TENNIS?
I’m sweating like a conman at an FOP convention, but I feel great.
I text back: YES
Five minutes later, I’m on the court. The sun is bright, the wind blowing slightly. It feels great to be alive.
My buddy sees my sweat stained work out shirt.
“You all ready work out?”
“Yep.”
He smiles knowing he might have a chance.
We begin striking balls. I hit the first few into the net. Are the balls flat or is my arm a little tired, I wonder.
I adjust the angle of my strike and continue swinging. I feel a spring in my step and I’m eager to begin. I’m looser than one of Pablo Escobar’s concubines.
I jump out to a 2-0 games lead. My opponent is bummed out.
Suddenly, I feel a little twinge in my shoulder and my hamstring.
Uh oh!
Suddenly that spring in my step is more like Fall. Suddenly, my muscles are like the stiff, crumpled leaves falling from the trees all around me.
My friend hits a rifle shot into the service box. A game ago, I got low and let the force of his serve strike the racket and directed it back with aplomb. But on this serve, I find lowering my torso 4 inches a laborious pain in the ass.
I look like a feeble drunk as I stab awkwardly at his serve.
“Nice one,” I say knowing that the tide has just turned.
I proceed to lose six of the next 7 games. I should have quit. Instead, I grimace like the hamburglar forced to eat Der Weinerschnitzel.
“Let’s play again Sunday,” he says with alacrity.
Sure, why not just hit me in the face with your tennis racket while you are at it, I silently muse.
I limp to my car and sit down for a moment. I open all the windows and catch my breath. The breeze feels good. Sitting feels better. A U2 song fills the speakers. I feel rejuvenated.
I get home and pop open the garage door. The lawnmower is directly in front of me.
Suddenly I am filled with the need to finish the yard that is looking shaggy ad unkempt, like the Beatles from the Let It Be album cover.
I could just get on my riding mower, but I’m too stupid to do that. I’m an 18 year old farm boy and nothing can stop me from being stupid.
I pick up the weed eater and proceed to blast through long grass along the house. I change the line a dozen times, stopping and starting and bending and pouring in more gasoline, and then turning the buzzing machine sideways, holding it awkwardly over my head, away from my body, to dig the weeds out of the cracks along the curb.
OUCH!
Sweat is in my eyes. Grass clippings stuck to my forehead. My shoulder is now twinging uncontrollably. I am only half finished. I cannot stop now. What will Mr Johnson next door think about the grass bomb that has blown up all over the street.
I cut the lawn and then pick up the blower and clean up the street.
My white socks are stained a muddy green. My shoes are almost unrecognizable with wet blades of grass stuck to them.
I brush myself off and limp into the house. I am wrecked. I am creaking like a 65 Mustang that’s seen one too many winters.
I let the shower wash over me. I am amazed by the mud and dirt and grass clippings that suddenly swirl around my feet and sink down the drain.
That can’t be good for my plumbing, I think to myself.
I sit down for the first time in 3 hours and feel my body seize. I’m a combustion engine that has not been lubricated properly. Now I’m about to pay the price.
I suddenly decide I need some Advil.
One major problem. The medicine is upstairs, and I’m now seated downstairs.
Big dilemma. My ass is firmly glued to the couch and the stairs are way over there.
My brain says get up and walk the stairs, but my body refuses.
My body trusted my brain earlier today and it refuses to listen anymore.
The TV is on. It’s the Home Shopping Network.
OH MY GOD.
An energetic woman is telling me about patio lights and how awesome they are.
I frantically look for the remote.
Oh No. It’s way over there.
Get up and get it my brain says to my legs.
Shut Up my legs say quivering like a humming bird.
You want it so bad you walk over there and you get it.
That’s OK, my brain says, shutting up.
Getting old, over doing it.