Homesteading - 06

I went for a walk just the other day, 17 km mini marathon for a slightly out of shape nearly middle aged homesteading chap but a positive experience despite the near critical trauma my feet, knees, hips and all the connective tissue and muscle endured. To be fair this was a three stage walkabout in roughly 5 km stints morning, noontime and afternoon consisting of the same route of mostly flat suburban landscape and I tell you pristine lawn soft underfoot is welcomed. But I was full of energy as the brisk morning air filled my lungs with its winter chill. A straight run from point A to B maxed speed of just under 5 km/h, I was burning up the step count for comfortable 65 minute walk. It was epic, stage one done and my nearly middle-aged athleticism high on the endorphins and believing the hype of accomplishment I had the rest of the day on the bag. Reaching the halfway point I felt the turn, the moment my muscles betray my irrational confidence in my athletic abilities. Work through the pain, my calves and hamstrings were conspirators in the forthcoming betrayal but I foolish pushed on because my exercise induced high would not slack the pace. I pushed on to the final straight, the longest yard, that final push to the finish line. My head throbbed, my lungs rasping, my feet nearing paralysis. I made it, victory.

A few days later...

Oh dear God what madness possessed me. My middle-aged or near enough to it ass pulled spasm some poor soul on the other end of the planet felt. Glutius Extremely painful maximus formed an unholy alliance with those treacherous muscles withca fierce stranglehold on the tendons and bones in my left and my right leg. The soles of my feet had been tattooed with Lego blocks as Chinese torture methodology. I could barely move without fear that the next creak or crack could be the catastrophic failure to bring down this unique physique. My body is not a temple, it's an ancient ruin worn into decay over time. Slow, careful choreographed motion permitted my petrified being a slow passage through space and time, resurrected were the injuries of my youth. Battle scares I proudly complain about more each passing year, getting old isn't for the weak. Bad knees, bad back, bad ankles and newly acquired lingering neurological numbess from my right hip to my left big toe, weird science.

I'm not complaining, no boasts or bragging rights here because someone who's been around since the late twentieth century there's knowledge in my bones, ancestral knowing. Decades lead based paints, asbestos insulation, chain smoking society, pre millennium, pre digital, tough enough to reach maturity I finally understand why old folks tell children getting old sucks. 

Brace for Impact - 06

Biological warfare truly is the work of the devil. Ultra processed bites of proteins, carbs, dairy and the saccharine sweetness of Hersheys chocolate turns random projectile turbulence into potential human rights violations. I was genuinely scarred when my wife started to dry heave moments after our four foot terrorist decorated the porcelain canvas in our bathroom, I'm the weak stomach of the household when is comes to toxic cleanups - I've never changed a diaper in fear of sporadic acid reflux discharge I'm openly mocked for every time the big daft orange dog in the room drops an Eukanuba fart in close quarters, her feral nature holds an intestinal constitution that could gag a goat. He apologized with sincerity, our reassurance he might have Canadian etiquette. The flatulence subsided, fart jokes are hilarious.