I’ve always prided myself on my relatively good health. Although I was never the athletic type, exercise had been a constant companion. And, despite having been born and raised in Texas, I never really liked football. Before my birth, my parents thought I’d be an athlete – as I was very rambunctious in utero. In my youth, they tried to force me into such activities as softball and volleyball – two sports my father loved. Despite my intense shyness, I resisted firmly enough for them to back off.
Instead of team sports, I preferred jogging or running; perhaps for the most obvious of reasons: it’s a solitary endeavor, and I’m somewhat of an introvert. I also liked gymnastics; then got into weight-lifting in the 1980s and taekwondo in the 1990s. I reached a plateau with the latter and abandoned it, but kept jogging and lifting weights into my 50s.
Years ago, when I lived alone and worked outside the home, I made a conscious effort to do some basic calisthenics every morning before I got ready for work: up to 100 pushups and 400 crunch sit-ups. In retrospect, I feel those activities kept me sane, as I struggled with depression and alcoholism. And now, I also sense I’m now reaping the benefits.
Unfortunately I don’t feel I can jog anymore; my knees won’t cooperate. I also stopped lifting weights because the last gym where I had a membership abruptly “went Hollywood” (as I like to call it) and decided to make men wear shirts on the main exercise floor. It was a quite a distance from my house anyway, and I had to go through at least two toll tags to get there. But as a (formerly) old-school gym, I felt it was worth the drive.
Moving into my 60s, another reality is settling into my world: family and friends are dying. My deceased relatives were older than I am now, but the friends I’ve lost were all around my age. And few things put one’s life into perspective than losing someone like that.
The cancer-related death of an aunt in 1989 and the AIDS-related death of a friend four years later commenced that journey of self-reflection and greater self-care. I began to appreciate my good health and have tried to maintain that personal ideology in the ensuing decades.
But another even colder reality is looming over me. I watched my parents age and struggle with the accompanying complications and I’m dealing with that now with my Uncle Wes. And, as I consider all of that, I have to admit I’m not sure if I want to get that old. Quality is always better than quantity. What good is it to live into one’s 80s or even 90s if they’re racked with pain and forced into a sedentary lifestyle?
A close friend just turned 60 and is having heart trouble. Another friend who is just a few months older than me has already had open-heart surgery. I was ecstatic a few years ago when the results of a testosterone analysis showed that – physiologically – I’m in my early 30s. Okay, now tell that to my knees!
This past June marked ten years since my father died. In the few years before – as his health waned – he often said, “I’ll keep going as long as I can.”
I’ve reached that same point. As hopeless as things can seem, I simply can’t give up on myself. My knees may not cooperate, but I have a boat load of stories to compose!
