Friday, March 23, 2012

Falling Apart

Young people bounce.  They have a spring in their step.  Toddlers don't run, they gambol.  Today a little lad ran past me, his mum trailing behind: "I'm a fast runner, look!"  He was talking to her, not me, taunting her with his supple musculature and flexible connective tissues.  He seemed genuinely happy, running along, leaving the previous iteration of his genetic code struggling to animate her leaden, time worn limbs to chase after him.

I felt jealous.  I can remember running around a park when I was about his age, my dad ambling along behind in a similar fashion.  I was a fast runner then.  Now I wake up each morning and have to re-teach my limbs the same action they've been doing most of my life.

I turn thirty in a couple of months.  Thirty's not old is it?  Not even a little bit really.  So why do I already find myself thinking back to years gone by, a wistful expression on my face, to times when my body felt indestructible?

Drawn on by a surgeon, to make sure they operate on the correct leg.  A real confidence booster.
There is a reason.  I broke myself quite effectively a few years back.  Tore my Anterior Cruciate Ligament playing basketball.  Oh, there was some choice language in the air that day.  Fiddlesticks and fuckeroo.  Some advice: warm up and stretch out before you exercise.  Tearing the major ligament in your knee is not clever. 

Bizarrely, the first (non-sweary) thought I had after I did it and realised I couldn't walk on it was "I hope this doesn't mean I can't play with any kids I might have in the future".  Kids weren't on the agenda any time soon, but that really was the driver behind working really hard at the rehab.

I'm glad I did, because all is well in the knee department these days.  But my shoulder has been hurting for the last couple of weeks, my wrist aches (don't say it...) and every day there seems to be a new part of me crying out for the dawn of the cyborg era.  I'd totally take a cybernetic arm or two.  

So, what's the deal, does it just get worse and worse?  When can I expect my limbs to start parting company with my body?  What are the woes you deal with every time your children escape your grasp and display their youthful athleticism?

Is it too much to ask of my body to not fall apart before my sprog wants to beat me at a running race?

*leaves to put frozen peas on shoulder*

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