I’ve never been an athelete. I’ve never been much interested in sports, eve since I stopped playing touch-football with the boys, when I hit puberty. I’ve tried tennis. I hit the ball to high, too long, and way over into left field. I’ve tried softball. Thank goodness that ball is "soft" and big, because it felt just awful when it hit me in the eye. I tried running, but I couldn’t get anyone to chase me.
I tried swimming, but even thought I float like a cork, and have had numerous lessons, I can’t seem to get over the idea, that I’m really going to drown. Finally, I settled on walking, ad for a number of years, I walked 3 to 5 miles a day I realize that there is an Olympic sport referred to as "walking," but when I tried that, all I succeeded in doing was throwing my hip out.
I’m definitely NOT an athlete, but I mae do especially in my "mid-life" years, which brings a question to my mind. When did I hit mid-life? I remember when I hit thirty. I had to visit a grieft counselor, because I knew my life was over. I remember forty, I had to see a grief, counselor, the day after my frist child graduated from high-school and moved out of the house, because I knew my life was over. I remember forty-four. For some reason I thought my lfe was over. Then I hit fifty, and I was all excited, because I was able to join an organization called AARP. My husband was, espcecially, excited because he is younger than I, ad he got to join, too!
Fifty became the magic age. I knew that as long as I was in good health, in this day and age, I probably had a good fifty years ahead of me. Then came the asthma. O.K., I had that much earlier, but it only became life threatening after fifty. Then came the firbromyalgia. O.K., I had that earlier, but it’s not life threatening. Then came the arthritis, and, more recently, at fifty-five, came the diabetes.
