Of Foam Rollers and Chiropractors: A Discourse on Aging

On the occasion of reaching what could only be called my mid-40’s—no more early 40’s, not yet late 40’s—I find it odd to think that, by age, anyway, I’m a grownup.  Often it doesn’t feel that way, when I feel lost or ready to pitch a fit or utterly sad.  Those emotional patterns are embedded, and despite my age, the fact that Nels and I will be married for 20 years this year, and I have worked in a recognizable profession for 19 years, I just have to step back and say, “Seriously?  How did I get here?”  Here could mean the gray hair, less-than-elastic skin around my eyes, mouth, and neck, or knowing that I have to wear a suit for work on occasion (okay, only for interviews so far).   It could also mean living in Rhode Island, being a runner, being a yoga teacher, or being friends with some of the smartest people in the world. 

I can recall at the turn of every decade looking back on the previous ten years with a mixture of remorse and sheepishness, often with a dash of defensiveness thrown in.  When I was around 10, I’d look at my Fisher Price castle with disdain while I played with my Barbie house and wondered why her hair didn’t grow back after I cut it. 

At 20, the insecurities of middle and high school were still very apparent.   My proudest accomplishment up to that time was mowing enough lawns to buy contacts the summer before my sophomore year.  Such a small thing, but my world changed.  At last I had the attention from boys that I craved, and yet somehow, I didn’t feel any better about myself.  Even worse, I didn’t even notice that my level of self-consciousness rocketed up in direct correlation to my plummeting self-esteem.  That was probably what led to dropping out of college after one semester and moving in with a cute guy who rode a Kawasaki motorbike whom I met at a gas station on Coliseum Boulevard on a warm July evening around midnight.   

I could call that interlude of my life a mistake—my parents certainly would—but I don’t.  I learned a lot of important lessons about respecting people from all backgrounds.  I wasn’t doing too much different than what I did in college a little later—drinking beer on Saturday nights, listening to a lot of Eagles and Led Zeppelin—but the context was hugely different.   

  

My mid and later 20’s brought big changes—graduating from IU, getting married, becoming a teacher.  At 30, I looked back and couldn’t believe how long it took me to start living what I had conjectured to be a “normal” lifestyle.  We had bought a house.  I had the most interesting, taxing, and real-life job I will probably ever have (teaching at Aurora), and understood how little I knew, so I entered graduate school. 

In my 30’s, working full-time at IU, being in a doctoral program, I felt like an imposter.  My tasks and colleagues were grownup (although some of them didn’t act like it, for better or worse), and I was sure I would be revealed as the insecure girl who once loved riding on motorcycles but now was pretty happy that her husband was in a band.  Even then, though, I kept feeling like I was inside a box and could only knock it over, but didn’t have the map or the courage to actually get out of it. 

Once we moved to Rhode Island and signed a gigantic mortgage on a normal-size house (par for the course in New England), I became “Dr. Johnson” and my social and intellectual worlds opened even more but I still felt small and insecure.  Then, Nels and I started running, and I began doing yoga.  Running was the replacement for walking when I realized walking wasn’t leading to any real physical fitness.  But yoga?  I was reluctant to try it because as far as I could tell, it didn’t burn many calories and I didn’t see the point of spending 10 bucks on an exercise class that didn’t at least tell me how many calories I burned, like a bike or treadmill.  Somehow, though, it fulfilled something else in me. 

Now, in my solid mid-40’s, I can’t believe it took me so long to start running and to engage in the many practices of yoga—the physical practice, the meditation, the view of the world that starts with ahimsa, or non-harming.  I am a mid-pack runner, I am not particularly strong or flexible in yoga, and I fail at non-harming a minimum of a hundred times a day just with my thoughts.  Somehow, though, I would never go back to the days when I was too naïve to realize how much I never knew.

Most of the time, I’m good with here, although it feels weird to have to use a foam roller to ease aching muscles and visit a chiropractor because C1 and C2 are misaligned from years of tension in my shoulders.   I sure as hell don’t want to go back to any of the previous decades, but I am not sure if I will ever be free of my box.  It remains to be seen what my 50’s will bring; if nothing else, an easier time to qualify for the Boston Marathon.