a ~ And indeed there will be time / To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Several years ago I jumped out of an airplane. On purpose. With a guy attached to my back and a parachute attached to his back. It was fun.

A few days ago I had to dismount from a swing so I wouldn’t vomit.

Do I dare? No, I do not dare. My leaps of faith in my own physicality have diminished to mere hops, and even those hops I dare not attempt without deep, cleansing, stabilizing breaths and perhaps the promise of fame, or something yummy to eat, right afterwards. I have become a wimp. I have become less than svelte. I have become cautious.

Over the weekend I turned a bunch of cartwheels. I turned cartwheels because we were playing badminton at a friend’s house, and when I was a kid I’d spend most badminton games upside down. So, some deeply immersed reaction in me said: do cartwheels. And they were fine, they were lovely. So I threw in a few handstands. I attempted a backward somersault. And that’s when hubris caught up to me.

I haven’t been able to turn my head to the left since.

My body, it used to be made of stretchy, slinky rubber and now it’s a stiff and cracked and whiny plastic.

So I made a commitment. I would improve. I don’t expect to ever have the body of a 23 year old again, but certainly I can reasonably aim for 34. Right? RIGHT? This morning I did sit-ups. Almost six of them! And now my belly hurts. I’m soothing it with cream-and-sugar-enhanced coffee. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try a push-up or two.

Or maybe I’ll embrace this new chapter of the meek and just keep my feet on the ground. There’s plenty to do in an upright position.

About andi

Writer, editor, wrangler of small boys and dogs.

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