I believe I’m officially getting old. I suspect I should have realized it before now. After all, it’s been years since I took steps two at a time, and given a choice between a game of pick-up basketball or a rerun of a reality show, you’ll find me in front of the TV.
Awareness dawned as I looked at the bottom of my computer terminal, where I tape things I don’t dare forget, to check the date. That’s when I realized the tiny calendar was surrounded by doctor appointment cards — and those weren’t even all my appointments for the next six months.
How did this happen? How did I go from being able to do anything I wanted and eat anything I wanted to a low-fat, salt-free diet?
Even my exercise habits have gradually changed. Once upon a time, I worked out six days a week. Three days, I did high-impact aerobics; the other three I lifted weights.
Over time, the aerobics became low-impact, and then the kind one does in water. Weight lifting gave way to cardiovascular workouts on bikes and treadmills, on the recommendation of my doctor.
When I was a kid, I didn’t know what a calorie was. These days, I can not only tell you the calorie content of nearly every fast food, but its sodium, sugar and carb contents as well.
The only good thing is that I’m saving a fortune on diet products. Never having been svelte, my goal with every new year was to try to force myself into the epitome of thinness.
By some odd coincidence, there was always a new diet program, diet book or piece of exercise equipment introduced at the exact time that I was buckling down to force my body to become thin, trim and everything else I’m not genetically programmed to be.
Don’t need those things anymore. I love watching the TV commercials for exercise equipment that combines a stair-stepper, treadmill and can opener all in one, and also promises to deliver a firm, fit body with only 30 minutes of torture a day.
I love watching them because I know better than to get on a machine like that. I’ve already had a doc poke inside both my knees, so I’m pretty sure my stair-stepping days are over.
And while I do enjoy the treadmill, I’ve been told by a high-priced specialist to keep the speed down and the incline flat — which is the same experience I get by walking to the kitchen for a snack, so why bother?
When I was younger, I’d use the old “it’s as cheap to eat out” rationale to go out to dinner as often as possible. Now I cook.
It’s not only because I’m single, and it’s not much fun to dine alone. It’s mostly because by the time I study the menu for foods that are low in sodium, high in protein, low in fat and still high on flavor, I’m pretty much down to tomato catsup and a baked potato.
I won’t mind this getting older stuff so much if it earns me a little respect. Unfortunately, I’m at that age where I’m not old to be a beloved elder of my family, and not young enough to hang with the Gen X’ers.
As I see it, there’s only one solution to solve this miserable problem — highlight my hair, lie about my age and get a job as a pharmaceutical rep so I can fib about why I spend half my time at the doctor.
CATHIE SHAFFER can be reached at (606) 473-9851.
