By Kathy Hughes
Contributing Writer
Now that I am “old,” my inventory of injuries and general debilitation has grown alarmingly. At one time, I was active and rode a bike, swam and skied avidly, depending on the season. Not by any means an athlete, no team sports here, I enjoyed speed and a hedonistic thrill of feeling the air or water caressing my skin. I didn’t want to become involved in the complicated intricacies of finding a partner to play tennis, for instance — I needed to just get up and go, whenever the urge hit me.
I no longer do any of my former activities, as I am incapacitated by a knee injury, dry skin and overall incapacitation. Recently, I was deciding what would be a good exercise for me, in advance of the changing season, and was shocked at how I was blocked at every turn by inhibitions, and, even more so, by physical limitations.
Biking might be good, but I have nowhere to store a bike. Walking and “working out” have zero appeal for me; they are boring, and lack sufficient motivating force to get me out the door. As active as I once was, I never engaged in activities merely for the sake of exercise, but because I enjoyed them. Frankly, I just don’t get it.
Suddenly, I was struck by the obvious conclusion — I am old! Exercise was no longer going to be enjoyable. I needed to pack up my infirmities, grit my teeth, and do what was “good for me,” whether I want to or not, in other words, suck it up. Now where’s the fun in that? What a despicable situation this is! No one told me that getting old was going to be this way, or if they did, I wasn’t listening.
