As discussed previously, this middle-aged bod seems to have begun the forward-looking to its winter of life, stockpiling reserves against the onslaught of time. Except that through the miracles of modern medicine and hygiene, we may now pass through or escape insults fatal in a previous age. Coronary disease is a much more present threat than starvation or flu. We no longer need the storehouse our genes are set upon. Combine that with the dreaded Sedentary Lifestyle (that is to say, no longer hunting, gathering, migrating on foot, and schlepping the water) and we find ourselves in need of self-imposed exertion. Meh. Feh. Bleh! I don’ wanna.
But there it is. So. Something aerobic, efficient time-wise speaking, and not terribly complicated: sounds like running. It’s like walking ~I’ve been able to do that all by myself for some time now~ only faster. I could become a runner. In fact, I have been dabbling at it for a bit. Except it hasn’t really taken. Something usually hurts, anywhere from discomfortable* to seriously worrisome. So I end up doing interval training by default: run some, walk some. But I’m all kitted out like a runner. I have the cool shorts and the heinous shoes. Young, healthy people run; arthritic old ladies walk. They wear velour sweatsuits and clunky, beige, orthopædic shoes.
Yes, that would be my pride talking. I know it’s offensive and not even true, but it still feels like being pushed back on my heels… toward the rocker… the wheelchair… the bed with rails, buttons, and a motor. It’s a slippery slope and I’m not giving an inch that isn’t taken from me.
Do what you can do; Be happy with what you can do.
With peace in my spirit, I accept this for yoga. In that studio, I have no pride. And I am a far better yogini than I am a runner. Why does my pride assert itself out there? If I can fall over on the mat and laugh, why do I feel self-conscious slowing to a vigorous walk? Especially when most of the people I’m passing don’t even do that (and it shows). A brisk, focused walk ~even with no running at all, if the joints won’t abide it~ is a worthy addition to any day otherwise spent sitting on one’s duff.
There. I will put on the earphones and the playlist where every song is ooo! my favorite, and head out the door to do what I can do and be happy with it.
*Yes, that’s a word. It is the state one is in after the doctor says, “You may experience some discomfort,” which means, “This is going to bloody well hurt and I don’t want to hear about it.”
[And just for Betsy: I definitely understand the why, so... White Bikini White Bikini White Bikini, GO! Thanks, girl.]