The Ignominy of Middle Age

In retrospect, maybe three marathons in just over six months after a six year hiatus was...overambitious. Back in 1985 I was told I shouldn't consider taking up running—advice I blithely ignored after the late 1990s—and so I recognize that every mile is a gift. But this last race was a doozy, with long downhills that put my feet, heels and knees into a competition to see which could cripple me first. Add to this hours and hours in the garden that have left me all too aware of each and every muscle in my back and with several blisters on my soft middle-management hands. I'm shuffling around here like a recently retired football player.

But rather than moan about it, I am going to focus on the bits and pieces that don't hurt:

My elbows. And who the hell came up with the phrase “funny bone” for when you do hit your elbow, anyway? I have a pretty good sense of humor, and I don't find that at all amusing.

My hair. It's frizzy, perpetually "between" actual haircuts, and increasingly sprinkled with gray highlights, but at least it doesn't hurt.

My toenails. Not even the one I've lost, like, four times from running and that doesn't grow anymore.

That's not too bad for an overly enthusiastic, obstinate, unrealistic forty-four year old broad. Now where did I put that ibuprofen, anyway?