GYM STREET BLUES

Weightlifting for Over 50s Needs More Ice Than a Frozen Margarita

If you’ve fallen, don’t get up — nap

Image credit: Canva adapted by Amy Sea

I’m icing, elevating, and ibuprofen-ing my hands. I’m dictating this post because my hands are broken. My knees sound like Jiffy popcorn on the burner whenever I stand up. Or sit down. Or turn the key in the front door, or open the fridge, or pick up the phone. Or sneeze, or exhale.

My entire back feels like it’s jammed into a vice. My shoulders feel like I’m trying to run them through a steel wall. My feet feel like I’m stepping on hot coals sprinkled with machetes.

Welcome to starting weightlifting at 50.

I’m starving to death because my organs don’t know what’s happening and they’re trying to replenish. My hunger pains think I’m lost at sea and trying to get home. My body is screaming, “Feed me or we’ll never make it to land!”

I can’t stop saying “I’m hungry” aloud, even when no one is there. Who am I telling? God? I have no idea. The dog? Anyone who can hear me? Do I expect someone to put a Big Mac in my mouth if they hear my request?

I fall asleep as soon as I sit down. Or stand up. Or drive. Or turn on a movie. Excuse me, I just fell asleep. I’m so tired, my…