It Even Hurts to Type

It took me twice as long to walk to the train station this morning. It hurts to lift my arm above my shoulder, it hurts to sit down, it even hurts to type.

 

Yesterday I played tennis for the first time in about eight years. I played against 'Milos', a neighbor who answered my email to the local listserv. It really is kind of cool, you can send emails to the entire neighborhood (at least those signed up for the listserv) to ask if anyone knows a good electrician, if anyone knows where to get good Chinese food, and if everyone can turn their music down. Milos and I arranged to meet at the tennis courts that are close to my house at seven.

 

By eight thirty I arrived back at home a sweaty, smelly, victorious mess. The game may have ended at a one set all draw, but for the basic fact that I had survived the workout without being crushed during the game was all that was important. I took a much needed shower and crashed out.

 

In short, exercise is good. I have woken up this morning in a lot of pain, barely able to move, but with a huge grin on my face and a good feeling inside. I always imagined myself being one of those fathers who plays sports with his kids and I really hope that I am that kind of dad, but to do that will take some serious getting into shape.

 

'Did you have fun?' Milos said as we walked off the court.

'Yeah, yeah I actually did. Shall we play again some time?'

'Sure!' he said. 'What are you doing tomorrow?'

'Aching, crying, possibly dying', I told him.

'Me too. Next week?'

'Next week sounds good', I said.