Wednesday, June 02, 2004
My driver's license says that I was born in 1980, but I feel so very much older than that. No, I don't feel wise. No, I'm not older than my years. I DO have the body of a decrepit old lady! Really, I have all sorts of old lady problems. For example, I have joint problems and was for a very long time on Vioxx. You've seen the commercials. Some old fart saying, "I don't want compete in the Iron Man, I just want to tie my shoes." I was on that medicine. I have terribly high cholesterol, see previous blog. When I was swimming competitively, my doctor told me that if I kept it up, I'd have the bones of a 90 year old women by the time I hit 21. Luckily, I got hurt and had to stop what I loved. Now I am sitting here with a heating pad on my back because I have some sort of catch or pinch or what have you. Oh, and it hurts. Don't forget the scoliosis, although slight, that gives me aches in my lower back and makes Kevin lovingly call me crooked-back. I'm not complaining, just explaining.
Tomorrow is my first swim practice as an assistant coach. I will be working with the 8 and under kids helping them learn stroke techniques. I'm a little nervous. What if the kids don't like me? What if their parents don't like me? What if the water is cold and I don't want to get in? What if I can't remember all their little names? The last time I found myself in the same lane as 8 and under kids, I yelled at them and made them all cry. What if I yell at the little lads and lasses and make them cry? I feel like I'm Shel Silverstein writing a What-if poem.
In conjunction with training little bodies in the art of the flip turn, I am in serious training with Lucy-cat. She isn't adjusting to life with a cat-door.
Tomorrow is my first swim practice as an assistant coach. I will be working with the 8 and under kids helping them learn stroke techniques. I'm a little nervous. What if the kids don't like me? What if their parents don't like me? What if the water is cold and I don't want to get in? What if I can't remember all their little names? The last time I found myself in the same lane as 8 and under kids, I yelled at them and made them all cry. What if I yell at the little lads and lasses and make them cry? I feel like I'm Shel Silverstein writing a What-if poem.
In conjunction with training little bodies in the art of the flip turn, I am in serious training with Lucy-cat. She isn't adjusting to life with a cat-door.
