When I rolled out of bed early one morning to get ready for my 11:40 a.m. class and looked up at myself in the bathroom mirror, my grogginess suddenly vanished, and I dropped my toothbrush in terror. I stared at my reflection for a solid 10 minutes, but nothing changed. The person in the mirror had a gray hair.
The reality that I knew had been approaching was finally here. At 21, my best years were now behind me.
Over the course of the next couple weeks, the symptoms only became more and more clear. I began going to sleep and waking up in sync with normal sun cycles. I started putting out plates of food and milk for some of the stray cats around campus. One afternoon at the gym, I even broke a hip.
Yes, my prime had come and gone, and I was now left to just drag on.
Following a doctor's recommendation, I became a member of the local YMCA. I began spending the majority of my afternoons, evenings and weekends hanging out with some fellow old-timers-just passing time, away from all the pressures of world. We would drink Coca-Cola and play shuffle board until it was time for supper.
I was having the time of my life. for the most part. There was one fellow down at the club that seemed to rub everyone the wrong way-Bob Hymanschlosser. For some reason, Bob seemed to have an exceptionally obvious grudge against me.
Personally, I think it probably stemmed from an incident in which I cracked his dentures with a racquet ball. Regardless of how many times I apologized, Bob was taking that one with him to the grave.
One particular afternoon down at the gym, Bob decided to call me out for a double dribble. Furious, I refused to accept his call. As tensions began to flare, our argument expanded to more than just the game at hand. He challenged me to the annual club senior triathlon-an event in which he had boasted the championship trophy for four consecutive years.
Acting rashly, as if I were young again, I accepted Bob's challenge right then and there.
With the event less than one week away, and my hip still less than 100 percent, I knew that I was already defeated. Even back in my youth, I would've never dreamed of completing a triathlon. Nevertheless, I was determined to at least show up and do what I could, lest I give Bob the satisfaction of knowing that I had backed down.
But the Saturday morning of the race, something about me felt different. It was as if I was back in my mid-teens. Even the air itself felt rejuvenating.
As I toed the starting line dressed in my short shorts and the number 12 pinned to the front and back of my shirt, I looked over at Bob and gave him a smirk. I felt invincible.
And I was. Not only did I dash Bob's hopes for a fifth straight title that day by winning the event, but I set a new club record. What I hadn't realized earlier is that the annual senior triathlon, while still a grueling physical and mental test, only spanned the course of a five-minute stationary bike ride, four laps in the hot tub and a 7/8 of a mile power walk.
Even though my membership to the Y was terminated after that day (Bob led an investigation that determined that the birth certificate I had used to claim a senior discount on my membership dues was a forgery), I still have that first place certificate hanging in my room, reminding me that I'm never too old to act as if I were young again.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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