Occasionally, the grandchildren will ask me, "Nonnie, why can't you run?" And I have to think about when I quit running.
As a child, I was fairly active (I have two younger brothers and had to keep up with them). I ran, I rode bikes, I dug caves, I played "kick the can", I walked stilts, and generally lived the life of a young girl of the 40's and 50's. When I went to school, we played Red Rover on the playground, played jacks in the corners of the porches, and swung the swings so high we felt we could reach the sky. (My knees still bear the scars of bike accidents and falls from the swings).
However, later in school, I began to hate organized P. E., times in the gym with volleyball and basketball, and running laps on the track. I was already more sedentary, loving to read and study instead of flailing and jumping. So I guess that it is where it really began. But when I was a young mother, I could have run a 9.3 to keep Brandon out of danger--so there was still hope.
After having cancer, I have since been afflicted with one of the lesser-know side-effects of chemo--an affliction with the legs which disallows running, and brings very slow walking. My legs seem to become sticks of wood as I walk and stand, so it is not really fun to do either for a long period of time. And that, readers, is why I can't run with my grand-children.
Now the question, when did my body take on the look of a female DoughBoy? I flee that one. And wake each morning with the happy idea that God's mercy and blessings are new every morning--that's enough for me.