A few of weeks ago, eb published a post regarding the difference between her chronological age and her perception of herself, or how old she "feels." I've turned that thought over in my head a lot recently, analyzing how old I "feel." I think the reason the question lingered for so long was that I kept identifying with my actual age. I don't possess any particular hang-ups over my age, as many of the most important people in my life are a little older. Over the past couple of weekends, though, I realized I do tend to associate with a much younger self when I'm performing physical labor. It always shocks me when my body lets me down, because I expect it to perform the way it did fifteen years ago.
While never an athlete, I've always had confidence in my body. In my teens and twenties, I generally believed myself to be stronger than many women of my average size, with decent balance, dexterity, and endurance. Rarely did a task intimidate me. Even more rarely did I fail. I have a stubborn personality at times and like to be independent, so it's my nature to tackle physical activities with an "I can do it" attitude. In my teens and twenties, I could. And did. Such an attitude kinda comes in handy as a lesbian, as there is no option to defer to the hubby when it comes to hard work (and there's not much point in wishing The Boy were here.)
Now, however, I find that I cannot lift every item in the house without hurting my back. Nor can I rake or shovel for hours on end without looking like a hunchback the following day. Last Sunday, I ran the weedwhacker for well over an hour. Much of that time I was holding it at an inverted angle in order to "trim" our driveways and sidewalk. Today, three days later, the muscles in my arms have finally stopped screaming their righteous protest of such abuse. It's a humbling experience.
Sure, I recognize that I was using muscles in a manner to which they are not accustomed, but the pain still served as a pointed reminder: I do not have the body of a 20-year-old anymore.
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11 comments:
I think that part of my growing devotion to exercise is to delay *feeling* like a 45 about to be 46 y.o. woman. My mom, who was never really very physical, at 66 can barely walk. Of course she's smoked since she was 15 and for about 10 years drank much beer. I urge to keep moving, working through the pain, some days. In my head, I'm 10 years younger--I keep this up my kids will be older than me. :)
I've always felt very disconnected from my body, but I do remember being 22 or 23 and trying to impress a woman by almsot singlehandedly moving her from one apartment to another. I felt physically fantastic and know I impressed her. In the end, it didn't help woo her.
Now my knees creak when I stand up every time. I'm not as fit as scout, but I am stronger than she is in brute strength. That's something, I guess. Of course she would probably point out that she's butcher. And that's true too.
I can totally relate.
We are at the age where we can still do it all - and the regret only comes later.
I can only hope the next stage would be wisdom, where we may stop and think ...and reach for the phone instead of the tools.
TOD - I'm certain a regular regimen of exercise would be beneficial, but I seem to lack sufficient motivation. Maybe by the time I reach your esteemed age... ;p
Sporks - How I perceive myself on the butch-femme spectrum would be a much longer discourse!
weese - lol, I see your point. Of course, reaching for the phone usually involves money, so I'll have to achieve both wisdom and a new attitude re: spending. :)
Funny. I am as strong at 42 as I was at 22, but my recovery time isn't what it used to be.
I excercise regularly, and although the spirit is willing, my knees and my back just just don't care for the kind of activities that I used to get up to in my youth.
Well, I think the obvious thing for you to do is write the long entry on your butch-femme place in the world. (Taps foot...has she written it yet? Hmmm?) :)
Sporks - good Lord no!
No, your body is no longer that of a 20-year-old.
But, my dear, your body is a wonderland. :)
*smirk*
Get a room, you two.
Nothing makes me feel less butch than handing a vacuum-sealed jar to Sporks because I…can't…get…the…effing…lid…off. Arthritic fingers, you know. That, and Sporks is also stronger than I am.
As for it not living in the '80s anymore, there are trade-offs. You may ache a little more than you used to, but you no longer hang out at the mall listening to Kajagoogoo.
Gun - perhaps if I led your lifestyle I'd still be "strong," too. But you're right - it's the aches and pains moreso than the lack of strength.
Although I didn't have easy access to a mall, your point is well taken, Scout. And I'm the chief lid-opener in this-here household. :)
Oh, and - we do have a room. I'll get back to ya on the thread count.
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