Boy, Am I Feeling Old[er]

I thought about taking this morning to address the fact that fewer than five people have looked at our [for sale] home down south since the first of the year, but then I thought, hey – people don’t need to start today with a scowl. 

Or strained, depressing laughter.


Remember when we were young and svelte? 

I love this.  Are we out of our minds?!  Oh, of course McDonald's wants kids to be fit.  My bad.

Can you recall the days when our miniature bodies could flex and bend into back walk-overs or be launched effortlessly over the bar of a high jump?  Even more impressive was the ability to spend a day hiking or skiing or even roller-skating without waking up the next morning unable to sit up in bed.  These days I'm lucky if only my back is sore when I creep out from under the covers, and I feel like a champion if I can jog to and from the car at the gas station without getting winded. 

When my sister and I were young, we were quite the athletic display.  When I say this, I mean that we were the embodiment of one concept (athleticism) applied to two startlingly different cases.  Renee was lean and graceful; I was stocky and awkward.  Starting in middle school, she competed in track and field’s 110-meter hurdles and the high jump – events generally performed by light, agile competitors.  I didn’t run, jump, or move more than ten feet in any direction - I threw things.  At the local ski hill, Renee would don a feminine, belted, rose-colored suit.  My outfit was an asymmetrical smattering of safety yellow, neon orange, lime green and reflective silver trapezoids, not unlike a hazmat suit crossed with an emergency space blanket (on a positive note, my mom could see me running into mesh fencing and hitting metal poles while sipping coffee on the base lodge deck).  Renee could pull off leggings and a side ponytail.  I spent 6th grade wearing sweatpants and rastafari Tweety Bird shirts.  If you’re a praying person, thank the Maker that your child has not followed in such dangerous footsteps.  This phase of life was awkward, physically straining, and grossly unbecoming.  And that’s only the material reality.  My mind was turtle soup. 

Although I lacked all grace and any beauty, I still marvel at the way that I was able to 1) maintain physical stamina through hikes, bikes and jog-a-thons, 2) recover from said activities with no fatigue or muscle pain, and 3) do splits.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to do one of those or a set of inverted push-ups right now. 

As I continue in my spring work-out venture, I am constantly (painfully, repeatedly, embarrassingly) reminded that I am no longer a child.  I know, I know – I’m only 27 – but I’m telling you, my twenty-seven year-old body feels pretty far from the functional frame of my youth, and it only seems to be getting farther with each year.

On the plus side, at least I’m wearing sweatpants less often.  And as a grownup, no one can make me get back into that ski suit.


  1. The mental images evoked by the descriptions of young M and R are fan-tastic. And, I really want one of those Tweety shirts.

  2. Bahahahaha....you called me graceful.
    1. Who ran into the woodstove?
    2. Who was doing backflips off grandmas sofa-bed onto couch pillows to avoid being eaten by crocodiles and nearly broke their wrist?
    3. Jumped on a lego and broke their toe?
    4. Failed miserably as a ballerina trying to follow in her younger sister's footsteps?
    5. Relied on her power and the "awe" factor in gymnastics to make up for a lack of anything resembling grace and musicality?
    6. And was totally awkward until....well, I hope I'm not that awkward anymore.
    The explanation of tweety clothing and the ski suit are dead on thought folks.


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