Yep, I suddenly decided that my life would be more complete if I tried to do a cartwheel right in the middle of the lush, spring green grass.
As you can probably guess, that spontaneous decision didn’t go well.
My legs lifted maybe 5 inches off the ground, and I barely made it through the worst cartwheel in America without having to yell, “Medic!”
Sweaty and dizzy, I stood up and thought about the bad moment.
“Maybe I should have warmed up a little bit before that performance,” I whispered to myself. “Maybe do some stretches. Touch my toes. Do some knee bends.”
But during the stretching exercises I discovered that I also can’t touch my toes anymore.
In fact, those old pigs might as well reside in the next county. All I could manage was a slight wave at my feet from somewhere just south of my knees.
Something also cracked, popped and scared me half to death when I tried to engage in some knee bends. In my head I thought I would do a round of maybe 25 knee bends.
But after the cracking sound I reduced the exercise to 1 1/2 half.
“This is not a very good day,” I said as I rubbed my aching knee.
At that moment I should have had the sense to call it a day.
But I’ve never won an award for intellect.
I’m also not a quitter, even when it’s a bad idea.
So I tried again to tackle the cartwheel. And once again, a cow could have done a better job.
“OK,” I muttered, as I struggled to stand up straight. “Maybe today I can’t do a cartwheel. But I’m sure I can still do a back bend.”
When I tried to push my stomach toward the sky, my head suddenly felt like it weighed at least 74 pounds. Actually, I couldn’t even lift my head off the ground. Obviously, my problem wasn’t that I have a big fat genius brain, either.
The problem is my arms. They have turned into wrinkly noodles.
As soon as I am no longer restricted from lifting more than 5 pounds, this breast cancer survivor chick will need to get busy trying to find my muscles again.
It is a sad shame when I fail so miserably at a little gymnastics action, when I am “only” 55 years old.
Something I really loathe is a comment from the peanut gallery like, “You’re too old for that.”
In my book, that’s one of the worst statements in the entire world.
Who knows what we should be able to do or not be able to do at 55 or 72 or 86?
There’s no rulebook or age for the spirit, you know.
Age is only a scorecard for how many years we’ve been wandering around on the planet, gathering memories and new experiences.
In a few months I’ll be trying again to perfect my cartwheel and my back bend. Even if an ambulance needs to be parked nearby.