Pushing too hard almost defeated me…

The first, and subsequently only, Pilates session didn’t go well. I was astronomically dumb trying to bend at the waist. The surgeon said I could do anything I wanted, right? Not exactly. The instructor was whoppingly stupid, asking me to bend knowing I’d had fusion spine surgery, but like a good soldier, I did as asked, assuming she must know more than me.

Sharp, digging pain shot through my core as I tried to bend, the pain like the agony that grabbed me when I tackled twenty rapid sun salutations in my yoga class years back. By the 9th salutation, my arms froze open in ballet’s first position. What was I thinking—trying to defy my body’s limitations again?

I dragged by ass back in physical therapy, mortified at the setback, admitting that the pace and extent of physical recovery was out of my control. Sheer force of will failed me. Like a recovering addict, I now looked to a higher power to ‘grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

I can’t change that I’m a klutz. Since I was a kid, I smashed and flipped myself to the ground many times, but always recovered quickly. Now, in my 70s, recovery is a longer-term affair. I must reprogram my mind to avoid impulsive actions—exchanging my ready, fire, aim mentality with serious shots of patience. I’ll never be that fantasy of myself—a swift, athletic, and lean woman built on a life-time obsession of exercise. Hell, I was the girl whose father defined exercise as a well stretched out afternoon nap, and the girl who used any excuse to avoid gym class. I was always Miss Rickrack and Rhinstones cheering others on from the sidelines.

It’s time for me to buckle up and listen when my body screams ‘Don’t do that!’ I must practice patience and discipline to rebuild slowly, and have the courage to ask for help rather than trying to push through it myself. Hopefully, I now have the wisdom not to do stupid stuff.