I’ve never been an athlete. I’ve never been much interested in sports, ever since I stopped playing touchfootball with the boys, when I hit puberty. I’ve tried tennis. I hit the ball too high, too long, and way over into left field.

I’ve tried softball. Thank goodness that ball is “soft” and big, because it felt just awful when it hit me in the eye. I tried running, but I couldn’t get anyone to chase me. I tried swimming, but even though I float like a cork, and have had numerous lessons, I can’t seem to get over the idea, that I’m really going to drown. Finally, I settled on walking, and for a number of years, I walked 3 to 5 miles a day. I realize there is an Olympic sport referred to as “walking,” but when I tried that, all I succeeded in doing was throwing my hip out.

I’m definitely NOT an athlete, but I make do, especially in my “mid-life” years. Which brings a question to my mind. When did I hit mid-life? I remember when I hit thirty. I had to visit a grief counselor, because I knew my life was over. I remember forty. I had to see a grief counselor, the day after my first child graduated from high-school and moved out of the house, because I knew my life was over. I remember forty-four. For some reason I thought my life was over. Then I hit fifty, and I was all excited, because I was able to join an organization called AARP. My husband was, especially, excited because he is younger than I, and he got to join, too!

Fifty became the magic age. I knew that as long as I was in good health, in this day and age, I probably had a good fifty years ahead of me. Then came the asthma. O.K., I had that much earlier, but it only became life threatening after fifty. Then came the firbromyalgia. O.K., I had THAT earlier, but it’s not life threatening. Then came the arthritis, and, more recently, at fifty-five, came the diabetes.

Somewhere, along in there, I became very interested in

continued on page 19