The Perils Of Re-Discovering Daily That I'm Not 21 Anymore

I used to think I was a Mercedes; now I'm a barely road-worthy Yugo with bald tires and a balky second gear

It’s a cold, rainy, dreary Portland morning, and I’m in my basement man cave with Kendall.

One of the things I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older is that few things are less enjoyable than getting back into shape. I was an athlete throughout my college years. I ran a 4:54 mile and a half-marathon in high school. I was a goalkeeper on my college soccer team. I even toyed with going to England to play with a lower-division side. For a nanosecond. Then I came to my senses and realized I wasn’t nearly talented enough for that, but I knew that I was an athlete for life and that I’d take good care of my body and my health.

For the most part, I kept that promise. There were exceptions, of course- living and working in war zones tend to cramp one’s ability to work out regularly, f’rinstance- but I managed to avoid my family’s propensity for gaining weight. Instead, I congratulated myself for doing what I thought was a pretty good job until about four years ago, when I began experiencing difficulties with even minor exertions. I went through a battery of tests and eventually learned that I had a 95% in one of my main coronary arteries.

It turns out I wasn’t any different from the rest of my family. Biology is destiny, eh?

It was the phrase my cardiologist used to describe the blockage that got my attention- “the widowmaker”- as in, “this s**t’s serious, and if you don’t get it together, Erin’s going to be making plans for your funeral.”

So you’d think that I would’ve immediately straightened up and got my s**t together, right? After all, a 95% blockage is nothing to trifle with. I was lucky to still be alive. At the risk of being melodramatic, I was living with a ticking bomb in my chest, one that could’ve gone off in 10 minutes, next week, next month…who knows? That’s the sort of thing that will get your attention- if you’re paying attention, that is.

I left the hospital with two metal stents in two coronary arteries, but they’re an odd thing to contemplate. I can’t feel them; there’s no discomfort or sensation to indicate anything’s different. I knew the stents were there, but they feel more like abstract concepts- and I’ve treated them as such.

Over the past three years or so, I’ve gained 25 pounds, and my deteriorating mental health has limited my physical activity. All of this feeds off itself, of course. Circle the drain long enough, and it begins to feel like the norm.

Finally, about a month ago, I grew frustrated with discovering that some of my favorite clothes no longer fit. A confirmed endomorph, I carry my weight around my midsection, which is also the unhealthiest body type. So I stepped on my scale, only to learn that I weigh more than I ever have. So yes, I have some work to do.

The “fun” parts are the daily reminders that I’m 61, not 21. Getting back into shape is a much more significant challenge at my age than it used to be. Recovery takes longer, and muscles remain sore for inordinately long periods. Losing weight is also more complicated than it used to be, especially given my penchant for self-sabotage in the form of cookies, ice cream, and an inability to exercise anything resembling portion control.

I have to remind myself that this process will take a while. I have to remember to be good to myself, have realistic expectations, and celebrate the baby steps. I no longer eat red meat, I rarely drink alcohol, and I endeavor to remain plant-based whenever possible. I’m slowly getting back into working out…because at 61, gradually and deliberately are the only options.

I could complain about getting older, but I know it beats the alternative…and I like my life. I just need to do a better job of managing it and paying attention to my health. The day will come when moving will be challenging. I have my mother and father-in-law who serve as examples of that, but I want to do what I can to push that day as far into the future as possible.

Growing older may not be for sissies, but it certainly beats the alternative.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll take a few seconds and join the party via a paid subscription. While you’re at it, why not forward this to a few like-minded friends who might also enjoy it!! You can also donate via Venmo (@Jack-Cluth).