Another B-day Cake...Served Up With Some Humble Pie

Seriously, how does May 3rd get here so freakin’ fast? And when the decades start flyin’ by (at just a tick less than the speed of light) I’m forced to make my brain work a lot harder than it’s come to expect. Yeah, reflecting is like making my cerebrum run a half-marathon…at altitude.

And it doesn’t help that as the B-day cake bonfire adds yet another candle tomorrow, I’m closing in on 3-months of no serious exercise (all I’ve really done is walk…compulsively.) Ironically, I’ve always used exercise as a crutch against getting older. I even stooped to distinguishing physiological and chronological age in the intro of my second book.

I figure that if I can keep up with Millennials while exercising (or even kicking their ass) in spin class, I’m really virtually their age.

I’ve loved sports and competition since I was a little kid. After high school, I played full court recreational basketball almost every day until I was in my early 30s. Then I started playing tennis 4-5 days a week; tournaments almost every weekend. When I strained an Achilles, a physical therapist advised I’d just suffered a typical tennis injury “for someone my age.” And no, I still have a clean record when it comes to flipping-off physical therapists.

Prior to recent Mr. Hernia Blockage-Repair, I'd figuratively inflated my distorted youthful self-image by doing crazy stuff like carrying my golf bag and riding a stationary bicycle to music (too often Techno) in a roomful of mirrors. And only a few paragraphs ago, I basically smeared walking as way less than serious exercise.

But I used to be even more of an exercise snob (jerk.) It got so bad I even talked mess with patients who did stuff like aerobics and even worse…the Avon Breast Cancer March. Predictably, I soon became Mr. Cardio and did the Avon March. Until recently, I’ve been doing cardio at the gym most days since about 1988. And the Avon hike almost killed me. 25-miles of walking three days in a row is no joke…especially for the cancer survivors who mostly walked ahead of me all of the way.

I’ve learned walking near your birthday can be humbling and inspiring. It may have taken more than a few decades and there are probably harder heads out there somewhere, even if you leave out certain orange Presidential candidates. But I’m cured and I’m not referring to the hernia. Hopefully, I’ve found the cure for my pernicious inflammatory denial and snobbery; it’s called appreciation. I’m gonna appreciate every spin class, each round of golf, and every walk I intend to take from here to the Rose Bowl and parts in between.

I’ve now lived three years longer than my dad, a stellar athlete in his time. And when he was ten years younger than I am today, recovering from an amputation and walking without crutches or a cane, Dad knew who he was and how old he was…and he was and remained the same stellar athlete in my eyes.

And now for a B-day walk; onto Old Town, the Rose Bowl and back!