I wanted to grow up as soon as I worked out that it meant more freedoms (I would come to reckon with the responsibilities later). So I usually greet the onward march of time much as a pleasant Dickensian character would: with great equanimity and good cheer. But age has wearied me, and the years condemn with glee.
I have begun the gentle slide into decrepitude, one ignoble breakdown at a time: the sight problems that reared their head early; the crippling migraines that turned up in my teens; the insomnia; and, worst of all, the surprise lactose intolerance (goodbye, cheese). My whole body seems to have gone on strike from youth, it seems. Every ache feels like an attack from a vindictive landlord; every pain a demand for rent I can no longer afford to pay.
In the last month, a new ignominy: a flare-up of old back pain, and a sudden severe muscle spasm that incapacitated my entire left side for (alarmingly) several minutes. But I have a plan, and I am about to get evangelical about it. Sorry. It’s Pilates. My sword, my shield! I had tried it before and never especially felt any results, but it turns out the instructor is the key variable, and now I am transformed. I laughed openly at some of her requests (“Um, my legs won’t do that”) but soon it felt crucial that I at least try. My back is already stronger, my hamstrings less tight. Each successfully completed movement feels like a reward in itself.
Like any recent convert, my zeal is great; I will not rest until there are no more souls (or lower backs, at least) to save. I am renewed. My yoga mat has found new purpose. Join me, won’t you?
