My childhood was basically a highlight reel of orthopedic mishaps. Back then, a scraped knee from a bike fall, a knot on the head from an ambitious expedition, or a fall from a tree usually just meant a quick patch-up from Mom and a stern, “Be a little more careful!” before I was off on my next, equally perilous, adventure. We were basically pint-sized, cape-wearing superheroes, convinced gravity was just a suggestion and pain was merely a temporary inconvenience.
Fast forward to today, and life’s become less a playground and more a minefield of potential medical emergencies. A cut now requires a full incident report thanks to blood thinners that turn a minor nick into a crime scene. Bump your head on the headboard? Suddenly you’re scheduled for a CT scan faster than you can say, “I’m fine, really!” And the golden rule of modern middle age? “Don’t fall.” Seriously, that’s not just advice, it’s a life philosophy, a mantra whispered by every creaky joint. We’ve traded our capes for compression socks, and every seemingly innocuous activity now feels like potential kryptonite.
This morning, amidst my usual existential ponderings (and a brief negotiation with my left knee about its level of cooperation), I found myself wondering, meditating, and perhaps even praying for a little less vulnerability and a whole lot more reckless abandon. Not “motorcycle gang leader” reckless, mind you, or even “motorized scooter daredevil” reckless. More like “let’s just pick up the pace” reckless, or “maybe I’ll actually finish cleaning out the closet before next year” reckless. My head and body are overdue for a stern talking-to, a remedial course in living. After all, I used to square off against 300-pound linemen on a daily basis without a second thought. A slow walk in the woods and a little knee pain? That shouldn’t keep this old warrior out of “the game of life.”
What’s your most recent “this would’ve been fine as a kid, but now it’s a crisis” moment?
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