Cartwheels, Headstands, & Aging

What my brain thinks I can do vs what I can physically do

Emma Vincent asked, “You’re as old as you feel. Do you feel younger or older than your chronological age?”

The last time I did a headstand was a little less than 20 years ago when I was 55. When the chiropractor asked what caused my neck pain, I confessed to the headstand. She responded, “Why in the world did you do that?”

Before you blame my chiropractor for thinking 55-year-olds shouldn’t be doing headstands, you need to understand that my neck has been an issue since a high school injury. Doing a headstand after adding 40 years of life to the injury was not a smart decision. (But I could still do one.)

A crevice between two boulders might shift slightly when the earth rumbles, and that split will allow a bit of archaic debris to escape. In much the same way, without warning, the sane, mature woman living in my brain is subjected to an inner rumbling, and the resulting fissure allows the impossible-to-control, adventure-seeking resident 12-year-old to break free.

Any manner of daring-do can occur, but cartwheels and headstands top her list of fun things to try. At 55 years old it wasn’t much of a challenge for me to do a cartwheel, but after the headstand debacle, I sent the tomboy packing and told her to stay put.

She was well-behaved until last summer when she snuck out again urging me, taunting me, daring me, to do a cartwheel. (She knew there was no way a headstand would be approved!) I pretended to argue and insisted it was too much, but, well … I gave in. (You remember how fun it was to drop a cartwheel or two, right?)

I put on my shoes and went out the front door, but quickly realized that there was no way I was attempting a cartwheel in the front yard. I didn’t want the neighbors to see its imperfection. (I wanted to practice and then share my stellar form!) I changed course and headed out back. The memories of youthful freedom were rushing through my head.

Standing in the middle of my yard, arms up, legs apart, and ready to turn a fabulous cartwheel, if, for no other reason than to shut the little bugger up, I tested the distance by putting my right hand down to the ground, similar to doing a side bend, but leaning in, touching the ground, to get a feel for the action required. (Remember, it had been decades since I’d done this.)

Prior to the cartwheel challenge, I felt much younger than my age. I’m no athlete and have never been athletic, but I mow my lawn, carry in groceries in one trip, dig my garden, haul bags of mulch, shovel my drive, and consider myself in decent shape for 74.

That perception shifted instantly.

I knew like I knew, like I knew, that there was no way I could do it. When I put my arm down on the ground and put a little weight on it, I realized that a cartwheel requires all of one’s weight to be on the first arm, as one throws their entire body up and over to the other arm before landing.

I’ll bet you never thought about that as a kid, right? Me either.

My 12-year-old tomboy dropped her head in disgust and drifted back into the recesses of my mind.