AT SOME POINT, YOU MUST DECIDE: ARE YOU AGING - OR SURRENDERING?

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A NEW START ... OF SORTS. 

As I walk forward, I see - figuratively speaking - a big, ornate red door ahead. A door that waits patiently for my inevitable arrival. I look at it and see a boldly lettered “80” painted across it in lavish, gold-colored script. It is a reminder that I am already walking into the beginning of my eighth decade in this life - a reality fully supported by several reminders during these past months.

Last weekend, while on a short overnight trip, I fell. As in a “Hello, floor - I’d like to get to know you better and closer” kind of fall. A slip on a slightly wet surface.

Yes, some folks quickly came over to help, to make sure all was well, to ask whether I wanted to go to a nearby hospital. That was kind of them.

My reaction? A mixture of suppressed anger at my own physical failure, a surge of adrenaline, embarrassment, and a quick dash to my room (this happened at the entrance of the hotel) to assess the damage. A scraped knee. A couple of red spots on my forehead. Two small gashes in my scalp - the “bleeders,” as any minor scalp injury tends to bleed far out of proportion to the actual wound.

I felt betrayed by my body.

My life has been filled with sports of one type or another. Yet over the past sixteen months, several cancer removal procedures, recovery periods, and the inability to do much heavy physical work - due to those surgeries and their aftermath, aided and abetted by the many hours spent sitting in front of this very computer - have led to my body losing a good deal of the strength it once carried.

Then it struck me: I had not been betrayed.

Not by my body. It has reacted to every procedure in remarkable fashion. It has healed well. It has responded. It has supported me in the best way it could.

I had betrayed myself.

I had grown complacent over these last couple of years. I had stopped doing much physical activity. I had gone soft. And that softness affected my balance, my resistance, my movement - everything.

Until finally, I fell.

Today marks a new start.

I returned to the dusty treadmill and the nearly stiff boxing gloves. Both had been patiently waiting for the opportunity to help - to become my companions again. The treadmill began turning, and my feet began moving - slowly at first, then little by little rediscovering an almost forgotten rhythm.

After forty minutes of walking (we cannot have it all back on day one, can we?), I slipped on the boxing gloves. They fit smoothly over my hands, and to my delighted surprise, I could still hit that heavy standing bag with enough force to rock it.

Well… yes. Just a few punches. Just a few minutes.

My heart raced. My arms felt heavy.

But it is a start.

I know and accept that my body will not be or behave as it once did. But I refuse to go down without doing my best to be the best I can be - physically and mentally.

Yes, I may be approaching my eightieth year, but as the saying goes:

“80 is the new 60.”

Cheers - and never stop living, never stop moving, and never stop doing what keeps you strong in mind and body.

And yes, if you do fall … get up, clean the wounds, and move on.




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