That’s how old I tell everyone I am. I know I look like I’m 35. Okay, . maybe 38. But I’m actually….thirty-seventeen. All right, all right. I’m forty-seven.
I’m okay with aging. It certainly beats the alternative. My issue is the whole body not keeping up with my so-called mind. You know that expression “just like riding a bicycle?” Yeah. When you’re 47, in no way is that expression applicable to doing cartwheels. Like, EVER. Because it’s not at ALL like riding a bicycle. At least these days, riding a bicycle involves special designated lanes on streets so that if you crash, you’re not run over immediately by a car or take out any pedestrians. And they have dorky helmets in cute colors that you can coordinate with the bike’s paint job. Cartwheels? No. You usually have no safety equipment or special area in which to break your neck. Any old sidewalk or grassy knoll will do. Just throw your arms out, swing your body weight onto one leg, wheel yourself upside down so that your body weight is now on both hands with your feet up in the air. Now your elbows and wrists will say in unison, “Are you frickin’ kidding me?!” and both will bend in odd directions as your legs commit treason against you and use your body weight as a weapon to crush your head and neck against the ground.
Sitting on porch swings, playing Parcheesi, and maybe staying up late to watch a break dance movie marathon – these are all “like riding a bicycle.” Cartwheels? Not so much.