I’m not tough anymore.
Okay, I was never tough. But I am less tough than I used to be. I can’t push past my limits anymore. If I get tired, I have to rest. I have to measure out my strength and energy. Even if I try to ignore the fatigue, it’s not like I get anything more accomplished.
My stomach isn’t tough anymore. I’ve never been much of an imbiber, but a small sip of anything sets my gut to complaining. I can’t eat jalapeños or strawberries and blackberries—and that’s an issue of grief. I used to love a late-night snack—sandwiches, hamburgers, fries, maybe a hot dog. I’ll still do it occasionally, but I pay for it all night, and so does my wife.
I’ve always cried easily. But there was a time when I could hold back the emotion and move on. But not anymore. The tears won’t stay tamped down. If you see me stop what I’m doing to blink and swallow, just be patient. I’ll be with you in a moment.
I was surprised how hard it was to get through massage school last year. After all, I had attained a graduate degree a couple of decades before, and I still felt pretty bright, but it turns out my brain cells aren’t as nimble as they used to be.
The only thing about me that moves quickly is time; as it passes, I’m afraid I’ll be less and less.
I’ve still got things to learn. I’m just beginning my massage therapy and want to become excellent at my work. With this work, I can set my own pace and still help one person at a time find their healing.
When I was younger, I swore to myself I would never stop, that I would always step up to be of help. I can’t do it at the same pace as before, but I can keep moving.
Could less be more? A slower pace could help me notice things I had missed when I was young. I can be more available to fewer people, assuming I’m not preoccupied with my achy age. If I’m sidelined more often, I can cheer others when they’re on the field.
Deep Calls 