Ode to Mortality: Thy Name is Volleyball March 28, 2009

Ah, my roaring teens and twenties, back when I could toss on a pair of shorts, the sports bra, and some comfy sneakers to venture onto the court (be it sand, grass, or gym floor) for a solid few hours of bump-set-spike.  I could enter such contests of skill and sportsmanship on just a banana and soft drink for fuel.  I wouldn’t even need to stretch out, but even post-game soreness was gaffawed at with that reckless nonchalance of youth.  My body would be thrust into an array of strange postures and angles, all for the purpose of receiving the ball and helping to send it over for a powerful score…

And now I’m 34.  GONE are the days when I can hop onto the court after a 3+ year sabbatical from the game.  GONE is the flexibility of my 20s.  GONE is the metabolism that could use junk food for fuel without letting my energy drain away like the suds of my son’s bubble baths.  GONE is the rubberband quality of my spinal column for making all of those wacky dives, stretches, lunges, and extensions for the ball.  I type this as I sit on my couch, moving gingerly to salvage what is left of my lower back, and tenderly testing out my oh-SO-sore calf, forearm, and shoulder muscles to make sure nothing is coming off.  Why?  Because in about 20 minutes the kids are waking up from naps, and all opportunity for recovery will be GONE.

Crap.  My body is getting older and there’s only so much I can do about prolonging its use.  I think today “Wilson” is the one who looked at me and said, “Bump-set-SPIKE, you old bat!”