I was formerly able to heal.
When I’d cut myself, the wound disappeared within a week. Overtaxed muscle? Forgotten after a day. If I drank in excess I sprang back.
Now, if I scratch a mosquito bite, I’ve got a souvenir on my ankle for six to nine months.
I decided to go to a batting cage with some friends. I ripped like mad. The next day the torso ached a bit. The following week I returned, determined to impress the cute twenty-something’s who ran the place. On one power swing I felt a tinge in my upper arm.  For four months I couldn’t take off a shirt without feeling my shoulder yelp in protest. Four months!
A friend said that as the body ages, cells divide less frequently, slowing recovery. I asked a trainer if I could offer some incentive plan to my cells.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Drink from the fountain of youth.”
So I went out drinking. And I didn’t feel a thing.
That is, until the next morning, when my body launched a revolt.
When did my body become boss? Is it going to be “yes, dear” for the home stretch?
And stretching! Don’t get me started.
Photo by: Patricia H., CC Licensed
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