I refuse to become one of the walking undead.
The unwell. The quitters, the complainers, the crybabies. Those who say “Oh, well, I’m fat” and just accept it. Those who don’t even try. Those who won’t get off the couch and on the road to anything but the drive-through. I am so done with them.
Although I have reached what used to be quaintly referred to as middle age I no longer think of it as some green pasture to lay down in and count my money until I die. This is my prime.
I will not go gently into the good night.
I will not let my body spread, my willpower relax, and my determination downgrade. I am making a stand here. Like Dylan Thomas, I am raging against the dying of the light.
I refuse to listen to Oldies Rock and wear mom jeans and appliqué my sweatshirts with seasonal greetings. I won’t use the phrase “old enough to know better.”
I vow not to become one of those people who stroll past others and sneer, “You’re not getting me to do that.” Instead, I will be one of those people who stop and ask, “How can I do that?”
I am not too old for triathlons; I am too young for complacency. The next forty years is a long time to sit on the sidelines.
I am not in the wrong place. I am, finally, in the right mind at the right time.
To me, movement is like breathing. And, trust me, you don’t want to get between a woman and the source of her oxygen.
So, step aside, I’m taking my turn at the pull-up bar. And I brought some bands for my girlfriends so they can take this path too.