I was not an early adopter of exercise. When I say not an early adopter, I was more of an active dissenter of the whole concept for a couple of decades. My biggest exertion for the first 12 years of my life was walking across the street to get the mail. My mom had to throw me outside in the summer to keep me from spending the day inside reading.

I went out for cheerleading in 8th grade (everyone who wanted to cheer was included; I was never cool enough otherwise), and I did much jumping around. It was around this same time that I took up tennis. That means I practiced on the backboard in the summer and went out for the tennis team during my first two high school years. Unsurprisingly, I was not a varsity player. I was so low on the list; I might get a match if they had enough girls left over. There wasn’t much exertion, which was just fine with me. Sweating is vastly overrated.

In my last year of college, I started running.  No, that is an exaggeration.  I started jogging.  Slowly.  Painfully. The genesis of this bizarre behavior is fuzzy. It was entirely out of character.  I think my roommate talked me into trying it.  The shoes were super cute with fun colors, I felt justified in buying more shorts, so it must have been an easy sell. In the years that I ran (it sounds so much more ambitious than just ‘jogging’), I never went further than 10K, which nearly killed me.  The alleged runner’s high was non-existent.  Sporadic at best, I finally gave up running in my early 30s.  It hurt too much and just made me cranky. Now I only run when chased.

But walking.  That’s my superpower.  I can walk fast with the best of them. Long strides, lots of ground covered, not too breathless to talk. Add a couple of Australian Shepherds to the mix, and I’ve automatically increased speed and distance. This I can do.

Weights were added to my exercise regimen in my 20s, and since then, I have been a faithful free weight class participant at the YMCA. Again, effort is expended with little sweat and panting. I’m even considered fit! Or at least, fit-ish.  For a non-athlete, this is very satisfying.

Here’s my dirty little secret: I continue exercising because I can eat and drink more that way.  It seems like a small price to pay for more cookies and wine. Then I figured out I am a better version of myself if I get some exercise. I am less mean and sleep better. This is a surprising side effect.  Who knew walking-induced endorphins were so helpful for ugly mood swings?

Now we come to my current speed bump. If you remember, an unfortunate Duck, Duck, Goose incident last June resulted in my taking the summer off from pretty much all exertion.  Fall brought me triumphantly back to the Y and my weight class tribe. The dogs and I powered our walks up. I. Was. Back.

Poor word choice. My back was not back. Unable to straighten one day, I realized something was wrong with my hips and lower back.  Then I couldn’t lift the bar with my left arm without significant discomfort.  After some chiropractic adjustments and dry needling, there was a physical therapy evaluation. I blame the diagnosed tennis elbow (ah, the irony) on Lloyd the dog, and the sore hips and back from weak abdominals, etc.

This appears to be what the cusp of 55 looks like – stretching (newsflash), ice, heat, more stretching, and the application of ultrasound, all to aid in healing. There’s a decent chance I may have to start aqua exercise to reduce the stress on my back and hips in lieu of spin or weight class. Lloyd will have to temper his enthusiasm if he wants to go for a walk. I will endeavor to continue stretching for the remainder of my life.

None of these solutions are terribly hard or tragic.  But they’re yet another reminder that though I think I’m still 25, my body thinks and acts otherwise.  It seems outrageous that in addition to the drooping on the exterior, I now must deal with ripping and tearing on the interior.

Regardless of the impacts of gravity and years, the bottom line for me remains the same. Every day I’m on top of the dirt is a good one, and birthdays are to be celebrated (for months with lots of cake and presents!), not reviled.  I am deeply fortunate this body has taken me this far.  It will serve me well to treat her more kindly and patiently going forward.