When age becomes more than a state of mind

I think one of the hardest things a person has to say to herself is "I'm just too old to do that any more."

Of course, there are those gung-ho aerobics health nut instructors who are still toned and taut at 60, but let all of us who have never been toned and taut and prefer Whoppers to workouts agree to ignore them.

I haven't really had to think about it until recently. There's not that much I'd want to do if I were slim and fit that I'm not already doing. Reading and logic puzzles don't require me to stop and take a resting pulse rate, unless it's a really, really tough logic puzzle and I get it on the first try. Whoohooo!

(Or if I'm reading one of the "red" romance novels, and the whole point of those is to raise your pulse above resting.)

But there have been some things that I've taken for granted that I can't do anymore, a whole plague of ailments that arrive as youth and energy depart. I can no longer "bank" sleep, staying up all hours and working on stories for the horse show special souvenir edition, then make them up later.

Remember doing all-nighters for college exams? We'd finish the test, and instead of collapsing into our dorm rooms and a welcome coma (which would have been a much better indicator of our intelligence than whether or not we know William the Conqueror landed in 1066), we would hit the parties. We'd go night and day between school, work and parties, and spend Sundays in a state of suspended animation. We weren't exactly chipper first thing Monday morning (who is?) but our batteries were recharged and we were ready to do it all over again.

Now, 25 years later, I'm forced to admit I just can't do that anymore. This year, the horse show section wiped me out and I actually found myself looking at the Celebration arena and groaning, when covering the show is my favorite thing to do all year. (Closely followed by the Shakespeare Festival, both the Environmental Awareness Day and the county fair at the Ag Center, and visiting Ike Farrar.)

I think the only way they're going to lure me into the press box next year is if they move the Optimist Club donut stand up there. Or smuggle in Diet Cokes ...

Of course, if it weren't for my fondness for Optimist Club donuts ... and chocolate ... and fried chicken ... and nicotine ... it would probably be a lot easier to make the climb.

The pharmacy companies are all over this problem. They are constantly designing drugs -- and diseases so they can design more drugs -- to combat what we used to just call the aches and pains of old age. Now don't get me wrong, I know some of these aches and pains have serious sources. I have friends with fibromyalgia and I've got high blood pressure and neuropathy myself, but let's face it -- sometimes those mysterious aches and pains are just our bodies telling us "You are too old to be bungee jumping, staying up all night, or opening aspirin bottles by yourself."

Sometimes we can pinpoint the cause of a new ache or pain. I noticed I kept getting a cramp in the arch of my right foot. This morning, as I let Ben drive me around in the van, I realized it was from repeatedly pushing that imaginary brake that all terrified passengers try to push when they see their driver rushing toward a certain death. Or a mailbox.

No doubt, the pulled neck muscles and bruised fingers are from gripping the dashboard at an unnatural angle, trying to move the car six inches away from the ditch with the power of my mind alone.

No, I'm not up to bungee jumping these days (not that I ever entertained the thought of bashing my brains on the rocks below without a better life insurance policy or some seriously illegal recreational drugs) but maybe, after a four-day weekend, I might be ready to tackle the daily rigors and trials of life, like riding all they way through town with my son without grabbing the "Oh Heck" handle once and staying awake through Jeopardy!

Maybe, just maybe, with plenty of rest and relaxation behind me, I might have the energy to open that bottle of aspirin.

All by myself.