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Whose Body Is It Anyway?
My daughters are all involved in gymnastics. This serves several purposes. It teaches them discipline and the correlation between practice and improvement. It gives them an outlet for all their youthful energies. It also serves to keep our bank account from overflowing, as cartwheels times three do not come cheap. Yet beyond all the kids tumbling in class and the cash tumbling out of my wallet, their gymnastic endeavors have served to highlight one other very lamentable thing: My aging body.
Ever notice how "gymnastics" rhymes with "elastic?"
Once upon a time, I too, was made out of rubber. I could bend, stretch, split, jump, twirl and handspring with abandon. Entire summer days were spent cartwheeling from yard to yard with my wiry and limber friends. I would watch entire hours of TV while sitting in the splits. Backbends? No problem. Round offs? How many would you like? I was like a human piece of Silly Putty.
And my body never once questioned my actions.
But times change, muscles atrophy and bodies learn to speak. It seems that somewhere between the ages of 10 and 36, my body morphed from rubber into Tupperware, and became strangely fluent in profanity.
This all came to my attention because I try to be an involved parent. A word of advice? Check your supply of Motrin before becoming involved in anything more demanding than making cupcakes for their school bake sale or buying something from your child's latest fundraiser.
The girls were all practicing their moves in the backyard. Music blaring, bodies being flung through the air, laughter all around. Sounds great doesn't it? I thought so too and decided to join in the fun. To my children's delight, Mommy proceeded to do a respectable cartwheel followed by a not too shabby round-off. Shouts of "AGAIN! AGAIN!" filled the backyard while their praise filled my ego. Soon I was attempting a walkover, then showing them the right way to do a "bridge" - gymnastese for a backbend. Through all of this, I thought it odd that my body was being strangely quiet.
My body held its tongue for approximately 12 hours. It began spewing a string of profanity at me as soon as the alarm clock went off the next morning and I attempted one of the more simple body movements, sitting up in bed. I can't repeat much of what it hollered at me, but the tamer phrases included, "What the *^%#%$ do you think you were doing?!?", "You &*%$# moron!" , "How about you try to pull your %$#%$ head out of your %$#@$ next?" and "Get me some %$#@ Motrin, a ^%$# heating pad and some $%^#@ tea NOW!" It ended this tirade with a threat to, "Embarrass the ^&%$ life out of you should you ever ^%$# pull this %$#$% again!"
My body was right. I am an idiot. An overzealous one at that. It's not that I don't exercise, I do, almost daily. But I obviously do not incorporate those same backbend/cartwheel/splits muscles while watching ER on my treadmill.
After two weeks my body began to quiet itself down again. My stomach muscles no longer ached when I took a deep breath. My spine was able to comfortably bend to tie my shoes and I no longer feared traction if I sneezed. My body and I made peace and it stopped swearing at me in my sleep.
Then my daughter had a birthday party.
With a rented, inflatable bounce house.
I couldn't help myself. I joined the girls and began to jump, bounce, spring and flip. I felt young! I felt alive! I felt my body awaken, whisper a short line of profanity in my ear and deliver the promised embarrassment.
You see, it is not only the leg, back and stomach muscles that suffer from aging. Suffice it to say that the eleven million Kegels I have done since giving birth were a total waste of my time. I quickly excused myself and reappeared in new attire.
Fine, my body is right. I am getting older. I cannot throw it around with abandon and not expect to suffer some consequences. However, I refuse to stop trying. I shall begin stretching more daily, perhaps throw in some yoga and a Pilates move or two. And as for getting back in the bounce house at my next daughter's party? Well, let's just say that it all Depends...
Copyright © Linda Sharp. Linda is an internationally recognized author & columnist whose work wraps around the globe to appear in print publications from Maine to Malaysia, as well as
across the web. Linda is also creator of the totally irreverent and hysterical website, "Sanity Central: A Time Out From Parenting!" Her latest book, Stretchmarks On My Sanity: The Growing Pains of Raising a Family, has earned her rave reviews and comparisons to
the late Erma Bombeck. She may be reached via email at lsharp03@aol.com. Reprinted with permission.
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