Feeling Old, and some Things to Write

    I will speak on age and feeling it. Then, "Forgetting I loved You."(1) And, ... there were a couple other things. Like, Patrick Corbin leading the majors in losses (decisions) (2), college football (3), Bronco Mendenhall (4), and maybe... The story of my mom and selling, discovering (5). And maybe, too, my Jewish friend in Israel with no response (6).

    I felt old these last eight days. A few weeks before I slept weirdly, I woke up with a crick in my neck, a pain that emanated from my right shoulder area connecting to my neck on that side, so that I had a hard time turning and it felt painful. This worked its way out after a few days, gradually diminishing. Around 1994 I had a roommate, perhaps younger than me at age 22 or so, who had done this anomaly to his body; I found it unfortunate but comical. He was not very strong nor athletic. Not always an age thing, to put a painful pull in the muscles, but in my case now, however, I felt it was related to older age; me in my almost mid 50s.

    I did the outdoors exercise with my group, Saturday at its hottest, this mid-August day--it was hot, and I carried a bit of weight beyond what I was accustomed to. I was ordered to do a bit of extra movement and work, hefting this weight on my shoulders and back; I stood to catch my breath, my heart racing and sweating profusely, when others determined that I was about to be a heat casualty. One thought that I had lost consciousness a few times, even though I had not. I did strain heavily, however. There was dense brush to trip on, a bit like a drunk, though.

    That night, sleeping on the ground, I re-aggravated that crick in the neck from a week or so before. The next days I monitored my pain and the after-effects of heating up too much from the work, or over-work.

    Age. Age? Older age? The body devolves.

    I played basketball a few nights later; the first few games my teams won and lost, maybe 2-3. I was not the best, but not the worst. But then in the last two games, where my mind and body typically has gained a rhythm and does good things, my hands felt odd: I failed routine movements or plays and I was questioning my usefulness, the utility of being a person on my team, my utility as a piece of the puzzle on the court. Not usual. I tried to excuse myself for having "hands of lead". The brain was not too sharp, either. Ugh. This could be health, and age. Older age.

    A day or so later, limping at work from soreness of playing basketball, which I know I could do for more than 15 years, when younger, I forgot the name of a girl that I had liked a lot in high school, mostly my sophomore year. Hana? Hanan? Hunada? Arab names, as I knew hers was, but not her. What was her name? I met her mother some ten years later, back in Bloomington. Shorter, but gracious and in her own way beautiful. She might have sensed my threat. Me, still menacingly single. (Save this for the "Forgetting" post.)

    It came to me later driving in my car. Her name from high school. A... Sanam. I remembered the last name too, not to be mentioned here. It starts with an "R". The two names go together, they always did, I think, most of the time.

    That was more than 35 years ago, like 37, almost the amount of time Moses divided his life: his period of exile in Moab, or his earlier time as a Prince of Egypt, or his final wanderings in the desert.

    Paging Chaim Potok. Ah, the times of Ghaleb and the Holy Land. Blessed me, for sure. Young, immortal, imperfect, but eternal.

    And this is how I can age. And feel it, and slightly fear and dread it, but most of all recognize it happens, and it is happening to me. I am embarking on good professional things, so all is not lost. I am still a beginner in vital things, too. Never too old yet; still vibrant enough to engage and vigorously take on other things of import, and things that make a difference. But I am no longer young, by any means.

    Accept it. Be at peace. With the process.