Dare to Date

I sat at the table with two of my three kids for a family meeting. I looked over my list; they sat with eyes glued to their phones. 

“Hey guys,” I said. 

They murmured. 

“Phones down!”

“One sec,” said my sixteen-year old daughter - holding up her hand as if she were a crossing guard. 

I took a breath and spilled words onto the table like Yahtzee dice. “I’ve decided to start dating.”

Chance. 

My fifteen-year-old son looked up, “What’d you say?” 

“I’m - going - to - start - to - date,” I said, enunciating each word as if we didn’t speak the same language.  

Silence. Both kids stared at me. Finally, the more curious of the two asked, “Who would date you?”  

~~~

Human sexuality is taught in the school system starting in grade four. Back in the summer between my son’s grade four and five years, I sauntered into the TV room in my pyjama’s. He sat on the couch watching TV and as I passed by, he said, “Mom, why do you have poop on your pyjamas?”

I reached back and stretched the edges of my boxer shorts while looking over my shoulder. “That’s not poop buddy.”

“Well then what is it?”

“It’s . . . ummm . . . blood.” 

His head snapped away from the screen. “Why do you have blood coming out your butt!?”

My face grew hot. “I don’t have blood coming out of my bum. I’ve got my period.”

He recoiled. “You mean . . . You’re a GIRL?” 

~~~

So, I don’t think he meant to be mean by thinking me undateable. His thoughts ran something like this — Moms aren’t women . . . Moms don’t date . . . GROSS. Neither of my teens showed interest in my desire to date, not that I expected them to. My daughter didn’t speak at the table at all. I found her later in her room, cocooned in blankets and pillows on the floor. I squeezed in next to her and she began to cry. Dating represented the end of hope. My parents had split up when I was a teen and I hoped for their reconciliation feel into my twenties. 

Landing on the other side of fifty and contemplating dating felt like starting college deplete of youth, like showing up for a tryout with gear that had passed its best before date, and like pouring vinegar over baking soda. Finding suitable dates when I was in my twenties did not require a “profile”, a “describe your ideal day”, or a “what my partner should know about me” section - it required in-person conversation and connection. The grown-ups I meet now are parents, teachers, and coaches of my kids. There could be a single dad watching their child play, but short of walking around with a sign around my neck, or conducting an in-bleacher poll — “EXCUSE ME … I’m doing research for a story. Would all the single and available people please stand up”— there was no way to tell.

One day in the Co-Op parking lot, a tall eye-catching man in black dress pants and a cream-coloured shirt closed the trunk of his car and slowly wheeled his cart past me. He stopped perpendicular to me as I finished unloading my groceries. I looked up and my heart quickened and my mind reeled as I realized he was checking me out. I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head, like, “How you doin’?” He gestured towards my cart and said, “I’ll take that for you.” 

I reluctantly perused the internet for dating tips. Reluctant because I wanted an across the room spark to ignite; I wanted a guy-sees-girl moment that would define my future; I wanted to use my in-person charm to attract a mate; I wanted an organic meet-cute not a contrived profile that would sell me to a viewing public I couldn’t see. With separation and divorce on the rise for those over 45, and over a third of singles using on-line dating sites, the internet was ripe with information. Dating in your 50’s: Easy for men…not so much for women. A dozen Do’s and Don’ts of dating in your 50’s. Top 5 dating sites. Dating after 50: waiting for sex and five other rules. 

Here’s the thing about dating for the quinquagenarian - men in their fifties want women in their forties (or thirties). Moreover, telling the truth is not a prerequisite; fifty-three percent of people lie in their online profile. And, a unique lingo pervades on-line conversations, making communication tricky. 

Early in my research, I stumbled onto a local Meetup group that organized events and activities for singles. The group was set to meet at a local climbing facility and then have appetizers and drinks. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to wiggle into spandex tights and walk into a room full of people I didn’t know - of all ages - and then step into a harness with three inch straps around my legs and waist and climb up into the air so that a room full of potential mates and competitors could stare up at my backside? Even spandex would not contain my voluptuosa (yes! I made that word up). My gravity-laden ass and back-thighs would ooze over the edges of the straps like bread dough through fingers. 

Navigating the online minefield of mysterious misters is a part time job that requires a skill-set and cool detachment that I don’t possess. I believe in people. I am wired for connection. By this age, there are men (and women, I presume) who are skilled at showing you what you want to see—saying what you want to hear—and being an imagined ideal, to get what they want. It can be a heart-wrenching ordeal for an honest, loving, sensitive person. The whole process is bass-ackwards! When you date in your teens and twenties, you meet someone you are interested in and then decide if you want to date them — when you date in your fifties, you go on a date with a stranger enough times to see if you like them. 

Sage Rage

“Hello.”

“Do we have any hazel nuts?” said my fourteen-year-old son Yohannes.

“Umm . . . I don’t think so,” I said. “Why?” 

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at the ranch with Laurèn.”

“I want to make Nutella,” he said.

“Nutella?”

“Yes. I need hazel nuts.”

“You could try a bit of almond butter and . . . “

“Okay. I got it.” He hung up. 

I arrived home after a day at the ranch that lasted too long. The countertop, splattered with nut butter and chocolate, looked like a battlefield with spoons and forks as the weapons. The faux-Nutella sat in a large glass bowl. Yohannes had used the entire jar of almond butter, and a bag of chocolate chips lay annihilated on the counter.

“Yohannes!” I yelled. He came upstairs. 

“Did you try it?” he asked enthusiastically.

“WHY did you use all the almond butter?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” he answered.

“Do you know how much that jar cost?”

“Nope.”

“That jar was like thirteen dollars, and the chocolate chips were probably another gazillion. You could have taken a trip to the Nutella factory in Italy for less than that!!” 

“Mom?” he said, “you okay?”

“You only needed a couple of tablespoons! What are you going to do with all of that?” 

“I’ll freeze it,” he answered. 

Clearly I had taken leave of my senses and could not be trusted to interact with other humans. I waved my hand at him and went to unpack from the ranch. When I turned back, Yohannes was gone and so was the faux-Nutella. 

In the freezer I found the glass bowl of chocolatey goodness—with no lid or plastic wrap! I did what any sane and attentive mom would have done. I yelled and stomped on the floor over Yohannes’ bedroom. He showed up in the kitchen (brave kid). 

“What were you thinking!!” I asked. Not waiting for an answer, I took the bowl from the freezer and threw the whole thing into the garbage.   

“What are you doing?” Yohannes asked. 

A reasonable question, to which I replied, “AUGGG!!”

“I could have put it in a container,” he said.

“But you didn’t put it into a container, did you?! It’s just going to get freezer burn, so I’ll throw it out now and save myself the trouble later. Do you even watch me? Where do you get your ideas from? I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

I stormed up the stairs, slammed my bedroom door, and sat on the floor and sobbed. 

***

“Peri-menopausal rage” — I’d heard it called on “Not Your Mother’s Menopause”, a podcast by Dr. Fiona Lovely.  

Me?   I don’t have PMS.  Why are you looking at me that way?

No . . . pffft . . . I’m not crying because my Starbucks card ran out and I forgot my wallet.

You think I’m over-reacting?! Ohhhhh… I’m picking a fight with you??  YOU used my favourite coffee mug! WHAT. DO. YOU. HAVE. TO. SAY. ABOUT. THAT?

Really, you think you're having a rough day? Well, my uterus is sliding out through my vagina. HOW DO YOU THINK THAT FEELS?

Rational thought runs into a wall; the brain gets electrified from too many signals at once; the thing that triggers the rage becomes an insurmountable problem; and conspiracy theory abounds as you imagine loved ones laying awake plotting ways to make you S-N-A-P. 

***

Scientific evidence is plentiful on the changes that occur in the brains of peri-menopausal women. In The Wisdom of Menopause, Christiane Northrup writes that “differences in relative levels of estrogen and progesterone affect the temporal lobe and limbic areas of our brains, and we may find ourselves becoming irritable, anxious, emotionally volatile” (p. 38). But, she also says that PMS and the ramping up of symptoms during peri-menopause are a call to check in on your inner guidance — it  could be that we need to tune in and take control. 

Of particular interest is that research cannot differentiate between the hormone levels of women who experience PMS and those who don’t. Every woman shifts gears, but not every woman drives the emotional rollercoaster that causes her family to be afraid and nauseous during the sudden descent (into hell). 

So, it’s not the hormones alone. 

Why — during one week do I come home and crash headlong into a rage over something as insignificant as homemade faux-Nutella, and in another week I’d pop a slice of bread into the toaster to sample the product of my son’s creativity? Why do I become the Tasmanian Devil a few days before my period, and Tweety Bird a few days later? But not every cycle.  

It’s complicated. 

Dr. Northrup summarizes it this way, “it is the particular combination of a woman’s hormone levels and her preexisting brain chemistry along with her life situation that results in her symptoms” (p. 43). God help me! The symptoms of PMS are “begging us to look up and see what’s not working in our lives” and attend to it (p. 40). If we don’t, there is an urgency during peri-menopause and the symptoms escalate. 

Any psychologist will tell you that anger is not the first emotion. I didn’t go nuts because the jar sat empty on the counter, or because it was worth more than a case of peanut butter, or because Yohannes doesn’t watch me and “do as I do.” NO, I went berserk for (at least) two reasons: First of all, I was tired - I’d taken an emotional beating and truly just wanted to get into bed (but couldn’t); and secondly, my inner guide took a holiday — no actually she was gagged and kidnapped some time ago —so I’ve been winging it, and not listening to the wisdom that my ill-contrived behaviour is trying to convey. Selective deafness. 

So, if you are reading this and you are still in your thirties (or forties) heed the wisdom of  your inner guidance system and make necessary adjustments—every bloody month. 

References:

Lovely, Dr. Fiona. “Not Your Mother’s Menopause”. Audio podcast. 2018. https://drlovely.com/podcast/

Northrup, Dr. Christiane. 2012. The Wisdom of Menopause. New York. Bantam Books. 

Say what?

April 13, 2017

Only me.

I went for my nearly-annual check-up today. Prior to seeing my doctor, the nurse asked me, “Is there anything specific you’d like to talk to the doctor about today?”

“Yes. I’d like to talk about the syphilis vaccine - the one for people over 50.” I smiled--being proactive felt great. 

“Ummm… the syphilis vaccine?” she said, staring at her computer screen.

“Yeah. I’ve seen signs for it at every pharmacy.” 

“You have?” she asked.

“My pharmacist said he would give it to me, he just needs the ok from the doctor.”

“You talked to your pharmacist about it?” she asked — just staring at me.

“Of course,” I said with nonchalance. 

I waited a half an hour for my doctor. I heard some talk in the hallway about a vaccine, but I was making a grocery list, and sketching outfits I would like to make, so I didn’t really pay attention. 

My doctor came in, smiling, and apologizing for running late. She has been my doctor for several years, and also looks after my two daughters, so she’s fairly aware of our family “story”. 

“So…what vaccine did you ask the nurse for?” she asked. 

“You know ... the one for people over 50...umm ... oh, it’s related to chicken pox.” 

“Oh,” she said and started to laugh. “The nurse told me that you wanted a vaccine for syphilis, and I told her that there was no such thing.” She continued laughing. “I knew you were in here, and it just didn’t make sense. I told her that she must have heard you wrong.”

Omigod! A light bulb blinked on in my head. “Oh No! I did ask for a syphilis vaccine,” I said, “I meant shingles—they are roughly the same length…you know when you picture the word in your head, AND they start and finish the same.”

“And you’d be surprised how many symptoms they share.” 

Only me.

Making the breast of it

My two friends W, J, and I walked onto the porch of my cottage after a crisp but sunny spring afternoon spent down by the river drinking wine and sharing stories. We walked up the steps of the cottage side-by-side-by-side. I reached out, pushed the key into the lock and W said to me, “Did you have a boob job?” In perfect synchrony we all looked at my chest. I cupped my hands beneath my boobs and heaved them up. We broke into another round of lose-your-breath hysterics. 

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“A reduction,” she said. “I remember you being bigger than us.” She turned to J for confirmation, “They used to be bigger, right?” Unfortunately J shook uncontrollably and made a small clicking sound in her throat—characteristic of her laughter gone internal. She would fall over soon and then turn blue. We stood by, ready to resuscitate. 

We had been friends since 1985. I’d reckon that our breasts weren’t the only things to have changed. 

***

Back when Laurèn and Yohannes were little, they climbed into bed with me each morning when the clock said 7-0-0. It didn’t matter what time they actually woke up, or if they snuck into each other’s bedrooms; they did not enter my bedroom a second before 7:00 am. (Such a control freak!) Anyway, on one morning they curled into each side of me as I lay half-coherent. They jabbered over top of me and leaned in with their elbows planted on my chest as if I were the dinner table. I felt a small hand press into my chest and pat around. 

I opened my eyes—“What-cha doin’?” 

“Where are your boobs?” asked four-year-old Yohannes. 

I raised my head and looked. He was right, my t-shirt lay completely flat. I found my boobs resting (peacefully, I might add) against my ribs on the side of my body. I scooped them back into position to wide-eyed stares, and then I let them go; they slunked over the edge and both kids broke into giggles. And then, to my horror (and quiet amusement) they each pushed one breast back up and let it go again and again, laughing uncontrollably. 

***

Recently, Ward told me about a conversation he’d had with seventeen-year-old Faven. 

“I’m not going to have breasts like Mom’s when I get old,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, “Why is that?”

“Have you seen them?!” she asked, incredulous. “They have fallen down.”

“Well, I suspect that is normal; I don’t think your mom did anything to cause that.” 

“IF that happens to me I’m going to get a boob-job. Do you know what that is Dad?”

“Ummm, I think so.”

“You can get your boobs put back into position if that happens,” she told him, and then added, “I wonder if Mom knows.”

***

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the chiropractor. I had been at an interview for a volunteer job, so didn’t have on my normal t-shirt and jeans. When Dr. Kevin came in, I told him my troubles—well, only those related to my spinal health—and I lay face down on the table. After a few adjustments, I turned onto my back. The chiropractic table is tilted slightly toward the head. I wore tights and a sweater dress with a round neckline. As I settled on my back I became awkwardly aware that my breasts, contained in a not-quite-push-up but not-quite-full-coverage bra, began to follow gravity. I lay still, flexing my pectoral muscles underneath the sagging breast tissue hoping to hold them in place. I held my breath and closed my eyes. You know how small children cover their eyes when they play hide-and-seek?—If they can’t see you, you can’t see them. I was employing that tactic. I felt my breasts droop like a bowl of Jello turned on its side. If aging were only as sweet!

 ***

Sagging is an inevitable consequence of aging, affected by the hormonal changes of menopause, but also by size, gravity, smoking, weight gain and loss, and lo-and-behold . . . vigorous exercise. Yes, the more freedom you give “the girls” the more likely it is that you will need little people to push them back into position or, God forbid, big people to prop, sling, or stitch them back in place. 

That is the down-side. 

But here is the great news: menopausal mammaries are shape-shifters—not like in Harry Potter when Professor McGonagall changes into a cat, or when the Boggart turns into your worst fear. It would be very awkward indeed to have your breasts turn into a cat or a Dementor right in the middle of your chest. Breasts already have the ability to cause eye-popping attention, that would just be over-doing it. 

But shape-shifters they are nonetheless. These pliable sacks of tissue can be folded, squashed, plumped, thrust up, forced down, and pressed into any mould of your desire. Look no further than Madonna!

Many of the undergarments these days border on ridiculous. Take the balconette bra—so named after a railing or balustrade in front of a window. The bra’s occupants have a clear view over top of that balustrade and even risk toppling over. Ouch!

Here’s another tempting option—the bandeau bra. A fresh new take on the french word that means: “band worn over your forehead”. Warning: Your chest has to be the same shape as your forehead to wear this one. 

A popular variety, the contour or molded-cup bra, is one where the cups have been formed by a machine to fit the shape of your breasts. I suspect they used a mammography machine and live subjects for that. 

In the olden days, we used to stuff our bras with kleenex if needed. But our modern-day counterparts are too good for that, they buy a padded bra—one that already has the kleenex in it. 

Another old-time favourite was the tube top, as if the breasts “inflate” the tube. I mean if that could actually then serve as a flotation device, that would be cool.

Lastly, I’d like to talk about the shelf bra. I know it gets tiring to carry them around all the time, but seriously, who would stop and rest them on a shelf?! I can see it now…you got your nice comfy chairs in the mall, and instead of a cup holder there would be a pivoting shelf. You sit your little hiney into the chair and pull the shelf in front of you, plop your weary pilgrims onto the shelf, and whip out your phone to take a seflfie. Hi Mom! 

***

The bra that I was wearing on that historic spring day when my friend accused me of having a breast reduction, was none other than The Equalizer (aka the sports bra). It takes your breast tissue and compresses it across your whole chest—so that no one can tell where one boob ends and the other begins. It’s the unibrow, but for breasts. 

Truth was, my breasts were reduced—in the same way that my butt, thighs, and waist were reduced. Weight loss. Odd that my friend didn’t ask me “Have you had a cheek job?” “Did you get the fat removed from your knees?” or, “I swear, your arms look smaller than they used to, did you have the skin tightened over your triceps?”

Breasts, and their accoutrements are somehow Just More Noticeable.

Merry Christmas. Period.

Life is nothing if NOT uncertain. True story. 

And just when you figure it out, it WILL change. Fact. 

So it goes with trying to use cruise-control through peri-menopause. Take for example men-stroo-ey-shuhn, which is defined as: “the periodic discharge of blood and mucosal tissue from the uterus, occurring approximately monthly from puberty to menopause in non-pregnant women” (dictionary.com)—aka the “period”.  

I had my last period in October—over one-hundred days ago. Then on Christmas eve Santa made a special delivery. How he shimmied down the chimney holding that, and slipped it into my stocking(s) without me noticing, I will never know. And such festive colours!

Did you know that during a normal period, average blood loss is only two tablespoons? I know! But, hold onto your measuring spoons because peri-menopause marks one of the times of heaviest flow in a women’s life. Halle(effing)lujah! And here is the reason why. I haven’t missed any periods, my aging body just forgot to let the lining go, and stacked one layer on top of another, like a blanket on top of a fitted sheet on top of a mattress pad. When the uterus wakes up and remembers its job, it is extremely irritated. It looks around and says, “Who filled up my nice cozy womb? Don’t you know I’m going for minimalism decor?!” In its anger, the uterus contracts, giving its owner labour-like cramps, and the feeling that the sky is falling. 

Missing two-and-a-half periods—though pleasant—is not really worth it. One can no longer even refer to the phenomenon as “a period”; it is more like an apostrophe that has been booted out of a contraction causing a very quick and uncomfortable expansion. It feels as if an invisible hand has turned the valve on a fire hydrant, thus releasing a powerful gush. Seriously!—walking around with a gushing red fire hydrant between your legs makes life a lot more complicated. For one thing, it is definitely not very sexy, no matter how you dress it up. Moreover, the risks of hypothermia go up exponentially, should the gush begin when you are out in -20 degree weather walking the dogs. Also, dehydration…just think about it. 

So, what’s an aging gal to do? 

Well, there’s hysterectomy and endometrial ablation, but those both seem a bit extreme. 

Why not hormone therapy?— in the form of birth control pills (contraindicated in anyone over 35), or progesterone (side effects include: abdominal cramps, depression, dizziness, headache, anxiety, cough, diarrhea, fatigue, musculoskeletal pain, nausea, bloating, emotional lability, and irritability—a cake walk given the other benign symptoms of peri-menopause). 

Since heavy bleeding is considered when one uses more than twelve regular pads or tampons in the FULL course of one’s period—I’ve decided to buy shares in Kotex™. Either that, or I’ll get me a pad-ded room! 

Gracelessly

Let me first point out the IRONY of this post…directly following “Fitness Gamble” from May. In reference to soccer, here is what I had to say:

"Before each game, I coached myself, “play smart, slow down, let the ball do the work”. But truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first. Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed. I don’t seek it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free. I am a competitor."

I chose not to play outdoor soccer this year, and found myself enjoying hiking and biking. However, after six months of not playing, and during a particularly self-isolating part of my year, I decided to go play a game. I yearned to do something I felt good at, and I wanted the camaraderie of the amazing women I’d played with. 

As you may know, I sustained an injury. A recap (August 29th):

The forward and I sprinted along the side of the field; she had possession of the ball; my job was to keep her to the outside, or take the ball away. Within scoring range, she pushed the ball ahead of her, and in a burst of speed, I got to the ball first. I touched the ball once, and she “took me out” from behind. She didn’t aim for or touch the ball at all. I fell hard, and landed directly, and with force, onto my left kneecap. Yes!—she did get a penalty called against her. I have heard many people say things like, “But soccer isn’t a contact sport! Is it?” to which I reply, “Have you not watched World Cup, or the Olympics?” There is legal, illegal, and accidental contact.

Here's the thing, in the moment of side-by-side sprinting, equal forces are at play: one player wants to score, and the other wants to prevent her from shooting. Competitive players act in ways that they would not condone in others. There is a loss of conscious and rational thought; there is only the ball, between you and a goal. I have always been a competitive player, and though I play a different game than I did in my twenties, if someone plays competitively against me—I am all in. 😏

So, I knew the risk, and played anyway. 

_________

I walked into physio this week feeling down about my perceived lack of progress, amongst other things. My physiotherapist Rhonda is realistic, and optimistic. I think she benefits from having her expectations, of her patients’ progress, in the realm of possible. I had been treated by Rhonda for three previous injuries; each time, through her unwavering guidance and my diligent work, I healed and then strengthened beyond my prior state.

As I “warmed up” on the bike by swinging my injured and still deformed leg in a shuddering arc, up and down, but not around, tears dripped from the corners of my eyes. My inner coach, who is not always helpful told me to “pull yourself together, do you want people to see you crying over NOTHING?” I wanted to scream at my inner coach, but just then Rhonda appeared, and she had a student in her shadow. I wiped my palms down my face removing the glistening tracks. 

“How’s it doing?” she asked, nodding toward my leg. 

I looked at my knee, “It’s okay,” I said. 

“Can you go all the way around yet?”

“No.” My foot swung like a weight on a pendulum, and Rhonda’s head bobbed up and down. 

“It looks like you will be able to go around backwards first,” she noted, and I nodded. “Put the seat up one notch, and try to go all the way around.” She walked away.

“Maybe I should have brought my platform shoes,” I said. She laughed. 

I lay on the treatment table, and Rhonda measured my range of motion. She explained to her student what my leg looked like when I first came. Like a proud Mama I whipped out my phone and showed him pictures.

 “Spectacular hey?” I said. He said he’d never seen anything like it. My range of motion had improved from 60 degrees—two weeks after the injury—to 110 degrees this week—five weeks out. (135 degrees is normal flexion) Rhonda then talked with the student about my body parts as if I wasn’t even there. 

“There are times when the injury to the bursa is so severe that it won’t go back to it’s original shape,” she said. And then her and the student took turns feeling my bursa. “Feel here,” she said. 

“Ohhh…” he responded, and grimaced. 

What? What are you feeling? “Is it scar tissue?” I asked, but got no answer. 

“And if it doesn’t heal?” he asked. 

“Some people just live without full range of motion in their knee. But, for athletes, the bursa may have to come out,” she told him. 

Come out. What? Hello, I’m right here. Are we talking about Madam Pomfrey removing it in the Hogwarts hospital wing, or like . . . surgery? Have I ever mentioned that I throw up after surgery?

Later Rhonda looked at me, and said, “When you walked in today, you were walking funny.” 

Duh! . . . I’ve got an injury here.

“Can you walk down there and back?” I did, and she watched me, her head tilting the way a dog’s does when we talk to them like they are humans. “Why are you dragging your leg like that?” she asked. 

Well . . . I’m either auditioning for a part in a “Mommy turns Zombie” movie, or training for the three-legged race in the upcoming “Unusual Athlete Games” set in Narnia! 

She stared intently at me, her bionic eyes boring through my skin and fat and into my muscles. “Try this,” she said, and lifted her leg up, knee bent—the way you would if you were climbing onto a rock, or a raised box. I mimicked her. “Yes! Good,” she said, with the enthusiasm of a mother watching her baby take its first step. “You still have your hip flexors,” she told me, “you need to over-exaggerate the use of your hip flexors when you walk. Walk down there again, using your hip flexor.”

I did it. I felt uncoordinated and foolish. Every second step, I willfully lifted my left leg.

“Much better,” she said. 

“I guess that will prevent me from falling down now,” I said, and she tilted her head again. “When I get tired, my dragging foot gets caught on stuff. Last night when I picked up my daughter at gymnastics, I caught my foot on a mat, and went smack, face first into the ground.” 

She raised her eyebrow, and then walked away, “See you in two weeks,” she said. 

 I gathered my things, and left. My right leg moved effortlessly while my left leg rose as if it were on a string controlled by some force just out of sight. I felt like a puppet-human hybrid. I realized that I could perhaps conjure puppet strings for any part of my body-soul.

Fitness Gamble

There can be no doubt that aging forces us to make decisions regarding fitness. The main questions: get active? stay active? or modify activity? A crystal ball would come in handy. I have remained active my whole life, and I intend to continue. But, in what form? My main competitive sport has been soccer; I have put thousands of miles on my body over thirty-plus years of playing. I’m pretty sure my odometer has rolled over…a few times.

Why, or how a fifty-plus-year-old woman plays soccer is a curiosity to many? Not everyone understands it, and I have been asked a time or two, “YOU play soccer?” To which I respond, if only in my head, “Yeah. Better than you.”

When I began to coach my eleven-year-old son’s soccer team a couple of years ago, he confessed to me on the way to our first practice that he was getting teased at school because his mother agreed to coach. He’s a confident kid, and I had his permission to coach. But he felt pretty nervous going to the first practice. Yohannes had “grown up” on the soccer field with me. I had coached him at ages three, four and five. He watched me coach his sister’s team for several years, and he came to many of my soccer games. I knew he wasn’t worried about my ability, and by the end of the first practice, he stood proudly at my side, because none of the other boys worried about it either. 

A few years ago, I sustained a lower spinal disc injury—bending over to pick up a pair of my ten-year-old daughter’s shoes. They were really heavy! It took months of physiotherapy before I returned to the soccer field. At my monthly massage, my therapist asked me how my back felt. I told her that it felt fine, except when I fell down. 

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s difficult to get up quickly after I fall down," I said. "When I put my hands on the ground by my feet to push myself up, I can’t because my back won’t bend that way anymore. I have to roll to the side to get up, and by then, the opposition has taken the ball.”

She paused thoughtfully; I assumed that she was trying to think of exercises to help me improve my mobility. Instead, it became obvious that she had probably never seen a game of soccer before. She said, “The thing that I don’t understand . . . is . . . Why do a bunch of grown women want to knock each other down?”

I laughed, “We don’t just go around the field pushing each other over. Falling and hitting the ground is part of the game.” (Maybe more for me than others.)

Some people just don’t get the beauty (or point) of physical sport. I’m okay with that. 

As one gets older, it’s a mixed bag. The last tournament I played in nearly killed me. I had to stop on the way home to pick up my daughter Laurèn at a friend’s house. When I arrived, the mom and dad sat at the kitchen table enjoying a glass of wine while the kids jumped on the backyard trampoline. They asked me to join them. I briefly contemplated saying no, because I knew that I could not bend down and take off my shoes. I just wanted to get home and lay down. But, I kicked off my shoes, shuffled over to the table, and lowered myself into a chair with a thunk and a groan. “Are you okay?” they asked. “Yup. I just finished a soccer tournament, I’m a little sore.” 

That was an understatement. What had I been thinking? 

Truthfully . . . I only strained one muscle group. It just happened to be the muscles that allowed me to stand erect, to bend and tie my shoes, to put one leg in front of the other (aka: walk), and to reach my arms out to pick something up, or even wash the dishes. Other than that simple little muscle strain in my back, and the fatigue, dizziness and headaches from exertion, dehydration and electrolyte imbalance, I felt great—quite “fit” actually. I still had it all goin’ on. 

I was forty-five—but on the field, I played much younger (we all do!). Before each game, I coached myself, “play smart, slow down, let the ball do the work”. But truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first. Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed. I don’t seek it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free. I am a competitor. 

During our final two games, we played the same team. They were lithe, fit, and young; we were robust, able-bodied, and mature. If the spectators had been at a horse race placing bets, they would have picked the fountain of youth over the well of experience. They would have lost their money, and incidentally, so would have I. The winning was a testament to our teams’ defensive tenacity. We stuck to them like a teenage boy dancing his first slow dance. Our opposition wasn’t interested in dancing, and they fought to shed us like a cobweb on a nature walk. 

Our goals, to play soccer, have fun, and win—if it was in the cards—were met. The younger, faster team expected to win, and possibly even to teach us a lesson. It wasn’t to be. They left both games congratulating us, and shaking their heads wondering what had just happened. I know their dressing room chatter was not likely reflecting their awe at our prowess. Our dressing room, on the other hand, was celebratory, complete with Jello shooters! 

The differences between them and us may not have been so obvious on the field, appearance aside. But after the game, as they were peeling off their sweaty sports bras and matching briefs, and slipping into lace undergarments and skinny jeans, we were peeling off our protective undergarments and bemoaning the realities of aging, while putting on sandals and sweatpants. We were already icing and applying antiphlogistines (A535) to our muscles and joints, and popping ibuprofen to get ahead of the aches and pains. 

It was after the fourth game in forty-eight hours that the difference in our age became apparent. All of the players had to be 35 or older; but when it comes to sport, each year difference is not additive—it’s more like dog years (seven years for each one—for all you non-dog people). Regardless of how much physical fitness I regularly participated in, I pretty much came out of that tournament, and many soccer games, beaten and depleted. Recovery takes an inordinate amount of time, and bounce-back is inversely related to age. My full time job, taking care of home and family, is hampered, because I don't sleep well, and each game takes me about three days to physically recover from. And the price seemed to be getting higher.

For the past five years, in between indoor and outdoor seasons, I simultaneously think, “I can’t do it anymore” and “I don’t want to quit”. The field has been the only place where I am truly in the moment. As I lace up my cleats, I set aside my problems; as I “get my game face on”, the difficult and painful experience of parenting a child with special needs falls into distant memory. I no longer care who has homework, whose fault it was, or how I am going to make it through this period of my life. I just play the game, to the best of my ability, alongside a team of ageless and delightfully-spirited women.

  Can I really give that up? 

  My main physical priority going forward, is to be able to walk through fields, hills and mountains as long as possible. I am at an age where I wonder what damage my choices of today will have on my joints of tomorrow. For that reason, I quit running years ago, making soccer my only impact sport. But, now, I wonder how it is impacting me. 

I grew up around music. My parents played in a dance band for many of my formative years. In the mid-70’s our house underwent a renovation to include a large music room, complete with gold shag rug covering the floors and the walls. Even though I did not inherit the musical genes of my parents, I do love music, and it often guides and inspires my living. 

In 1978, Kenny Rogers recorded a song written by Don Schlitz called “The Gambler”. I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure that my parent’s band sang it, but how else would a twelve-year-old girl find her way to it?  You know the words, sing along: 

You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em

Know when to fold ‘em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run.