It’s not easy to put in full work days after you’ve been sort of retired for more than a year. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now: I am not a spring chicken. I may have been blessed with skin that is much later to wrinkle than most, and I know that my frame of mind is always on what lies ahead that I can learn about and indulge myself in. But my body frame is beat.
I’m not quite sure if it’s the Monday-Tuesday early morning “One-Two” punch of a walk that is increasing distance and speed alone, or the busy season crunch at work that is steady and seemingly endless. It’s most likely the combination of both and I’m left wondering about how I used to do what I did day in and day out for so many years.
Flatter than a pancake.
It feels like someone aimed a baseball bat at the space between my shoulder blades and let it rip.
Why isn’t it Friday so I can dig around in the space under the MoH’s sink for a band-aide large enough to wrap me from head to toe?
I’m not opposed to hard work; I’ve always been someone who works hard. But clearly, I’ve reached a point where I have to rethink what my body can do. In much the same way that I can sit at my piano and know which keys to press when I look at a sheet of music and feel frustration that my out of practice fingers just can’t do what my brain is willing them to do, my body can’t keep pace with the list of have tos my mind knows need tackling.
I need an overhaul.
Or a new engine.
At least some air in my tires.
But it’s Wednesday, and that’s a very good thing. No early walk today. A decent night of sleep. Now if I could just move my back so that it didn’t feel like there were ten daggers piercing my shoulders, things would be perfect.
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