I’ve reached the age where I’m reluctant to undertake activities that could result in me falling over. I’m not sure exactly when I developed this heightened sense of physical caution. I suspect it was a slow-creeping condition like the wrinkle in the corner of my eye.
Some sports lend themselves to the vintage daredevil. Take surfing for example, you’re never too old to take a mouthful of brine and a sand-facial. And even if you’re not feeling up to it today, you can always opt for the less-frequented calmer waters and leave the big waves to the whipper-snappers. No one would be the wiser as you ride your long board on a 2 footer (that’s a 2 foot high wave).
On the other hand, take the recent re-emergence of roller derby. I quite like to idea of casually rolling around the rink but if someone tried to (and lordy-forbid, succeeded in) push me over, darn-straight I’d have a hearty case of rink rage. Not to mention a bruised tush that I would nurse and whinge about until well after the next bout in the competition cycle and perhaps even for the entire season.
The older we get the more firmly planted our feet are to the ground.
This fear of falling down extends into my life in other ways. I’m reluctant to ever have a hangover again.
But the point that needs to be made is: although hurting yourself really hurts, and the wait in the emergency department is boring, and the itch inside the cast is annoying, your life is for living, and if you’re not riding your kid’s skateboard at full downhill speed on an uneven surface with a dog attacking your wheels, you’re not living, are you?
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