Just ain't what she used to be

Look, we're all getting older.   I'm not fishing for compliments or even trying to make excuses for being overweight (though, let's be honest, wouldn't it be great to have my 18 year old body back?)  What I'm saying is, at the tender age of 36, I realize things just don't go like they used to.

Not that they used to go so great.  It's not like I was heli-snowboarding down Denali when I was 25.  I wasn't big wave surfing in Bali.  I wasn't rock climbing up El Capitan.  I was, in fact, not capable of a 3 mile run then.  I am now.  And that's something.  I'm not living in a world of nostalgia and lamenting my capable youth.  I'm not regretting never trying to run a marathon or train for an epic event.  I never did those things, and I guess it shouldn't surprise me, therefore, that I'm not doing those things now.

But we all have moments.  Brutal, honest moments where time and reality and cellulite stare back at us from the mirror.  When there is nothing but harsh fluorescent lighting and no make up.  No Spanx, no bronzer, no highlights.  There is just a body of 36 years that has carried 2 babies, suffers from skeletal defect, has picked up a few extra pounds over a few too many cocktails.  It's a body that's struggling to stay at it.  To stay healthy and durable and out of the plastic surgeon's office.  And, man, in that 3 way mirror of reality, things look rough.

This week, I've been helping S learn to ride a Ripstik.  A Ripstik is a skateboard with 2 caster wheels instead of 4 wheels on 2 axles.  It's a relative of the Razor scooter that S can manage like a pro.  S has been wanting to give this new gadget a try.  He's a durable little man--tough, resilient, and determined.  He's been on that Ripstik a hundred times, and on the pavement a hundred and one.  He's grasping it, slowly, painfully.  But he's not giving up, and I admire that tenacity.  I surely would have quit by this point when I was six. 

I've been getting on the Ripstik, too.  Unfortunately, I've also been getting dumped off of it.  I fell off it yesterday, inelegantly.  I slapped down to the driveway in a way I haven't fallen since I navigated icy paths in Chicago almost 20 years ago.  Yesterday, I hit wrist and knee to ground.  I woke this morning feeling like I'd been hit by a semi.  Today, I mustered the stupidity to try again.  I wiped out today, scraping my elbow, and doing something bad to my ankle.  Tomorrow, I am sure I will feel worse than I do right now.  I haven't tried and failed physically so spectacularly since I was learning to ride a ten speed back when kids rode ten speeds.

I wiped out in front of my kids.  I wiped out while telling them to keep at it.  While telling them that the worst that could happen is that they'll fall.  I have a raspberry on my elbow like a kid.  And I feel it in every old-ass joint in my body.  Failure stays with you longer as you age.  I don't spring back up and try again.  I hesitate.  I consider how embarrassing it will be to explain to the ER doc on call that I was trying to ride my son's Ripstik.  I think about how much I don't want to rehab an injury.

After today's wipe out, I spent the rest of the day on terra firma.  I held S's hand.  I balanced his body.  I gave instructions in language and by manipulating his body rather than attempting to demonstrate.  My days of trying Ripstiks, of being on two wheels at all, are over.  I yield to age and prudence.  I leave the recklessness to my kids, to whom it belongs.  I'll consider myself lucky to only have a scrape and an ache.  I'll nurse my muscles with Advil and a glass of wine. 

It's my bruised ego that really smarts.

Southern Comfort

It's pretty freakin' clear that the weather gods are: A) New Yorkers B) Have a strong sense of humor C) And an excellent sense of timing.

Rather than HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE, which had some alliteration going for it, as well as a catchy, if modified theme song "Come on, Irene," the Gulf South is staring down "Slow Moving Tropical Depression 13." Which is about as catchy as an ABC sit com title. Also, appropriate for this region--slow, depressed, and unlucky.

Apparently, despite the bland name, SMTD13 has already shut down drilling operations in the Gulf. That's important if you drive a car, as this means gas prices will probably go up. See? We're influential too, down here. This also means that if you plan to swim anywhere near the coast in the next 10 days, the water's gonna be foul. Don't do that. This also means that cable is probably going to be all screwed up for college football kickoff weekend. It also probably means there's no toilet paper or canned goods on the shelf at the grocery.

Accuweather.com, in an effort to maintain readership after the post-Irene falloff, is touting SMTD13 as the next BILLION DOLLAR NATURAL DISASTER. I'm interested, in how, exactly, a storm can cause a billion dollars worth of damage down here. Is someone in New Orleans hiding a billion dollars under a rock? Nice timing, by the way, as the Army Corps of Engineers gave New Orleans' levee system a failing grade. Wouldn't it cost less to improve the system than to watch New Orleans sink every five years? Glenn Beck probably thinks this is God's message not to build below sea level.

I guess, actually, New Yorkers and my fellow Mobilians are going to get the last laugh on me. I don't have one of those giant trucks or vee-hicles as people down here call them. My economical little station wagon might not be able to ford the streetrivers of our poorly-infrastructured town.  I mean there are probably backwater towns in India that have way more advanced drainage than our modest hamlet.  So, I will be trapped between the worlds of the true southerner and the die hard northerner. Serves me right for mocking the center of the Western World. I'll have to go out and beg some redneck to get me a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to keep my kin from starving. He'll be making an armed grocery run for some Bud Light in his Ford 850 with 27" of ground clearance while I bail out the backyard.

New Yorkers will be sittin' back with cigars in big, oxblood leather club chairs holding snifters of brandy, "who's laughin' at the rain now, woman?"

I have it coming. The worst part, of course, is not the billion dollars in flooding. Or the sinking of New Orleans (charming city, that, but it would be freaking awesome as Atlantis.) Or really any of the natural disaster part. The worst part is going to be that I have to spend a three day weekend inside with the kids. Screw the toilet paper and loaf of bread. I'm going to buy some booze.