Admittedly, I'm not 91 -- or 84, thank you very much. In the flattering pinkish, soft light of the highly expensive restaurant I don't frequent, I could probably pass for five or so years younger than I am. 78?
But over the past few months bouts with neck pain, knee pain, shoulder pain due to some overuse injuries from weightlifting have convinced me that I am indeed fighting a losing battle against time, as are we all.
Yesterday, while preaching a kids sermon I felt a distinct creak in both knees when I got up from the steps to the choir section.
My physical therapist, a babe in the woods at 37, is advising me to run smart, not long.
Hopefully some of these symptoms will be alleviated with a more careful and reverent approach towards fitness. But I can't expect them all to disappear, as they did when I was younger.
So I'm hoping for acceptance of the inevitable -- and maybe someone to take me to one of those restaurants once in a while.
I'll even split the bill.
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