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ABOUT WOMEN By
Christine Strobel
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I've always felt that age is a state of mind, but I may have to reconsider.
I've got a bad back.
There's a pinched nerve along the right side of my spine, around mid-back. Probably came from traipsing all over San Francisco, shopping and dancing, in three-inch heels. (But they're the wide heels.)
It's the same back area you see old people grip during a desperate attempt to stand, their right palm flat against the offending zone, arching their backs over trying to work the kink out, their faces contorted by grimaces.
Yep, that's me now.
Pass the Doans pills. Thanks, no, I already have the thermawrap support; it's under my tank top.
I'm doing my Pilates. I'm sitting with near-perfect posture. But sure enough, twist a little to the right ...
BAM!
My body has betrayed me. So now I'm going through the five stages of grief.
It's not like I'm unaccustomed to injury. Both ankles have rolled, I've overextended a plethora of muscles and tendons, even one in my right pointer finger trying to open a jar of peanut butter. I have lovely memories of feeling like one big, sucking wound after each of two marathons and climbing Mount Whitney.
Any athlete or athlete wannabe knows: If you're active, you gotta roll with the sprains.
Bumps and bruises are not optional. Acetaminophen is as necessary as Nikes.
But this is different.
When your back hurts, and the pain won't go away, it opens a window into a dark future.
A future of pain. A future of aging. A future of chiropractors playing the "Rice Krispies In Milk" sonata on my back — Snap! Crackle! Pop!
At 33, I'm not ready to go there. But, options being what they are, I can only go forward.
So I may as well embrace my coming decrepitude. Milk it for sympathy, cultivate my inner whiner. ...
Oooh! I could spend a mint on a Posturepedic bed. I'm old! I can afford it!
Reach Christine Strobel at cstrobel@honoluluadvertiser.com.
