Extraordinary Expectations

I’m just about like everyman who’s rounded third, at 62, and heading home.  My mind still climbs mountains and visits brookie-infested pools in the most remote streams.  My body hints at playing it safe and convinces me to enjoy the hike as much as I do the fishing. 

My mind sees me up and down the court for an hour or two at the Y.  My body settles for games of “H-O-R-S-E and “21″.”  Like a steel trap, my mind remembers three-mile cross country competitions.  My body takes the dogs for a walk and frets over whether we’ll go four-for-four.  Well, you get the idea.

My brain simply does not want to conform to my body and I’m thankful for that.  As a country singer once said, “I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”  Or something like that.

I’m semi-retired, which means I still work some but I never know when until right before it happens.  My wife of 42 years is still the light of my life and the reason 62 scares me not.  Together we have looked into the maw of crisis and tragedy and found the sinew to never let go.  We’ve stood on the mountaintops and felt joy without limit.

I’m still a man of 35, but when I say it, my body wants to debate . . . instead of hiking deep into the wilderness or racing up and down the court.  Yeah, I’m everyman who is fortunate enough to live to 62.  Life is a race . . . but it’s a marathon, not a sprint.