Age is a state of mind, but entropy totally sucks.
My ego and my body are at odds. There is a constant battle about just how old I am. According to my ego, I’m a young and spry 25. My body constantly tries to remind me that my real age is something more than that.
For instance, I take sword lessons. No, not fencing, sword. The difference is that fencing is a sport, and all the weird rules about right-of-way and staying on the lane and scoring with a mere whisper of a touch of the blade keep it a sport. Swords is a martial art. Nobody cares about right-of-way, and nobody is going to pay attention to a touch of the blade that wouldn’t draw blood. (Yes, we are armored. Like the punch line says, “I’m crazy, not stupid.”) And if you insist on staying in a lane, people will look at you funny and talk about you in hushed, conspiratorial tones in the showers.
Certainly, this is not a sport for the infirm, and it favors youth and speed and skill to varying degrees. I am of an age where skill must be the deciding factor.
I am also of an age where I have to take ibuprofen for the achy joints and muscles afterwards.
Do I ever remember to take the medication prophylactically? Surely you jest! When I don the armor and wield the sword, I’m 25 again.
Then in the evening, we cut the rug with a West Coast Swing.
And then I go home, and the body says, “Y’know, you ain’t a kid anymore. The ibuprofen is on top of your dresser, where you left it last night.”
“We already had this conversation,” the ego says.
“Yes, we have,” the body agrees. “Every night this week, as a matter of fact.”
“So, what are you saying?” the ego demands. “I should just stand on the sidelines and watch the kids have all the fun?”
“What happened to bocce?” the body says. “That was a good, painless sport.”
“Any activity that can be done with a glass of wine in one hand shouldn’t really be called a sport,” the ego insists.
The body sighs. “You’re going to keep this up until your joints fall apart at the seams, aren’t you?”
“Even the universe is mortal,” the ego reminds. “I’m going to scuba dive with my grandchildren some day.”
“Your kids aren’t even married yet!” the body says with an exasperated tone.
“Hush, hush,” the ego makes calming noises. “We have lots of time for that.”