So This is You at 54

You know, some people experience a midlife crisis, buy themselves a nice car, and then wreck it. They hit a tree. Others go to the gym and wreck themselves. It’s hilarious. 

Welcome to the new you—not the new and improved you, but the new and old you. I hope you can’t relate. You wake up one day, and a brainwave convinces you that you need to lose that big bad belly. Smart thinking, right? But then you decide to lift some heavy weights to achieve this. Sure, you drop the tempting candy bars, you pretend beer isn’t for you, and all you want to do is prove to yourself that the brutal yet appealingly handsome athlete you were in the mid-nineties is still lurking somewhere deep inside. It wants to make one more appearance. And, well, it did. 

 “One gym membership, please. Make it a double. I am poised for action, Ma’am.” 

Things go as planned: you start slow (because at 54, you’re wise enough to realize you could get hurt), then give it your all, and the pounds start dropping like dino droppings in ’93. This isn’t a coincidence. But that inevitable smell starts to fill the room—not unlike something prehistoric—when it dawns on you that the hurt little pinky didn’t come from flipping off critics of your journey, and that painful hip wasn’t there before you started doing leg presses. And let’s not forget that extremely painful left elbow—that definitely wasn’t a Christmas present. At 54, you realize things, but this time for real. 

As I type this, I’m in a lot of pain, and my grumpy face has taken on a darker shade of blue, primarily because I refuse to accept that this is the new me. Yes, those pounds did drop, and I can finally wear my good ole snob-pleasing Ted Baker suits again after staring at them for over two years. But the truth is, the pain is real, and the muscles don’t grow the way they did once upon a time. This is you at 54. 

Deal with it, baby.

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