All healthied up, and nowhere to go!

I went dancing last night. All excited after being shut in with healing my knee. I dressed up, felt great, and walked into the studio. Oy veh.

There was hardly anybody there. And who was there were not moving too fast. They were shaking their heads, “Did you hear about so and so? He was getting into his car and fell. And imaging showed he had tumors in his spine and lungs. He had surgery that left him paralyzed and not able to speak really well.” He is 6 years younger than me!

One of the guys present was shuffling and gray. He had just finished three bouts of chemo and was losing, but at least still coming out to move on the dance floor. Bless him. But yikes. He is 2 years younger than me! I used to see him at the gym every day it’s not like he was slouch!

Since there were only a few of us there, as you never know how a dance night might unfold, we sat to chat. I was saying I have been inside writing so much and healing my knee, this weekend with the weather supposed to be sunny and grand, I hoped to go canoeing. But you need a second person. I looked around at the ladies.

They looked like I had suggested we perform surgery on each other. They exclaimed, “my hip, my shoulder, my AFIB! Oh no, I couldn’t do that anymore!”

Yeeeech!

I went running to my car with my shoes juggling inside my dance shoe bag. I felt alive, lovely, dressed up. I was determined to have some fun. I screeched on over to swanky Eddie V’s, which is a cool neighborhood bar with class. Everyone there were aging drunks. I scurried out.

I drove downtown and parked. Not a small feat. I entered a few clubs but they were loud, smelled of too much alcohol, and too crowded. And YOUNG. Very, very young.

I got into my gray Honda Hybrid, my Lindsey mobile, and drove down to Lake Austin. I parked and put on some gym shoes I keep in the car and trotted to what looked like a good spot on top a small hill. The moon was still rather large. I felt so alive. But out of sync.

Here I was, by the river, late at night, all dressed up, the water lapped against the shore and I could hear it move faster more toward the middle.

I was not afraid. But I was aware of most of the older folks sitting in their homes in front of their TVs.

I breathed deep. It’s midnight. I am sitting my the river by myself in the dark and I feel alone and I don’t feel alone. I feel grand to be alive.

Just out of step.

Today there are 20-year-old babes writing best selling books telling us to eat rainbow raw food diets to stay powerful and young. But I have been living like that, out loud and healthy, against all odds, for decades.

But have I created a monster? I am certainly not to the same drummer as much of my generation. Not all, for sure, but most.

And dating at this age means, to a great degree, not the whole shebang, guys that move slowly with huge bellies and habits of control. Life is big and tsunami-esque and it is very challenging to be older and not be broken.

But if you have been living and breathing and Being veggied and exercised and passionate oriented for decades so you are the NEW OLD, you are IT, this is what you get when you have been doing all that for decades, “WHO ARE YOUR PEERS?”

I do have other friends who have been doing this too, but there are not a lot of us. Not a lot of us that reach this stage and don’t feel wooden and move slow and need to discuss more physical issues when bumping into each other than a dream they still are looking forward to.

Looking forward. At this age? Who do I think I am?
Med school? Who do I think I am ?

I think the only answer in all of this cacophony is to have a place deep inside, be it God, or nature, or life, or a guru, that you feel is strong, stable consistent and real. That’s the deal. A place that never was young or old but is your ISNESS.

Moving, interacting, remembering that place, above all else, is the ultimate anti-aging unifying gift.

My cul-de-sac is getting all our leaves blown away this morning as I write this. The trees have lost them all by now. I ran outside to remind them to get the leaves inside my garage.

The doorbell then rang while I was in the middle of jotting this down. The short young Hispanic leaf blower, about 275 pounds in a tight fitting tee shirt, sweating but sincere, wanted to know if he could take me out to dinner because he thought I was pretty.

Welcome to a snippet of my world. Ha!
Dare I publish this?