It’s a saying that has become familiar between D and I. We laugh at it knowing that it is true and yet deep inside I think the two of us resent the fact that we aren’t “spring chickens”anymore. We resent our bodies for the aches and pains that once, we either didn’t feel or we more easily pushed through. We resent that our stamina isn’t what we remember.
We remember when we could push through the night finishing a project without feeling like we lost our edge the next day. When it didn’t take three days to recover from one extra glass of rum. When slipping on the ice, didn’t insight fear that we may not stand up again.
When I say to D, “you’re not 49 anymore,” I say it with concern that he is pushing himself. That playing soccer like he is 25 or field hockey, like every goal matters, goes beyond the point of no return, because his bones hurt, his muscles ache or his big toe, well, simply doesn’t heal like it use to.
When D tells me to take it easy, I think he thinks, I can’t. This makes me want to do what ever it is that he wants me to stop, more. I pay for it, but would rather do than not and admit.
WE are NOT 49 any more. With few exceptions, as I have mentioned above, I am ok with that. I am an adult who mostly knows who I am. I am mostly done, trying to be what anyone, other than me, thinks I should be. I like the way I dress, the way I sing out loud, the way I can more than I can’t. I mostly like me. I like the fact that I can laugh at myself. I need to remind myself of this once in a while. Tonight was one of those reminders.
For 30 minutes, I got up, searched, researched, replayed the last place I saw them and then did it all again, only to realize they were there all along. Glasses, top of my head, right where I left them 30 minutes before.
Yup, I am not 49 any more.
The Other Side of Counting to Ten 