Mightier Than The Pen

Making The World A Bitter Place

I’m Sorry, Doctor, I’ve Been Exercising Again

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I’ve got to stop exercising before I fall apart.

We had little event for the families of our boys’ sports camp the other night, with a game of dodgeball: campers vs. parents. I’m proud to say the parents held up well. We only lost two of the four games against the pipsqueaks, some of whom were fifteen years old and quite a bit more agile than we old folks. But I rather doubt the pipsqueaks spent the following day, as I did, groaning in pain and soreness. My right leg keeps trying to remind me never to play dodgeball again.

My right shoulder didn’t wait until the next day to make its objection known, however. It felt sufficiently put out that it threatened to dislocate on the spot, just as I was taking aim at the shins of some whippersnapper. Why, when I was his age, I was, uh, I forget. I think when I was his age I was younger.

Then today I made the error of hitting a baseball a few dozen times for some neighborhood urchins to field. The hitting wasn’t much of a problem; I only swung and missed two or three times, and made weak contact about as much. But for some reason my toenail decided to protest. And the skin on the ball of my left hand proved too weak to handle the friction against the handle of the bat; I have a nice-looking blister and the residual dull sting as a souvenir for my efforts.

Tomorrow, like a fool, I plan to take some visitors on a walking tour of some local establishments, a route that entails mounting a formidable hill on the way there and again on the way back. Odds are a stroller or two will need pushing, and perhaps an additional preschooler will require manual transportation beyond the first few steps.

Here I am, thirty-six years old, having painstakingly trained my body to sit at a desk for hours at a time, rising only to attend to excretory needs and fetch victuals to fuel the rigorous regimen. And then, in the space of a few days, I toss all that preparation to the dogs and begin moving my muscles in ways to which they have become unaccustomed. The last time I’d played dodgeball was probably in eighth grade. That would be…wait, I can figure this out…carry the two…twenty-two years ago. Longer than any of those kids have existed. No wonder my body doth protest.

At least I’ve held a baseball bat in the intervening years, although the last time I participated in an organized baseball or softball game was in July of 1992. I remember it like it was yesterday, if you consider the last nineteen years or so a single day. At least my brain still works, and I can type this while sitting. I don’t know what I’ll do when even this becomes too physically demanding a task for me to get thr-


Written by Thag

August 13, 2011 at 9:47 pm

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