A few weeks ago, some friends from our old neighborhood asked me if I wanted to play in their church volleyball league. Now, I played varsity ball in high school and college, so I figured this would be a fun way to put some of those rusty skills to use. And prove I wasn't a washed-up athlete. After all, I'm still YOUNG! And in decent enough shape. So I signed up.
Last night was our first game. And despite the fact that I haven't picked up a volleyball in, oh, 15 years, I did pretty well. Made most of my serves. Had a few killer hits. And one perfectly executed block. I did well enough to convince myself that I still have what it takes to compete. I can still hang with the young players because I am not old.
Then I woke up this morning and I had to get out of bed. Oh. My. God.
Apparently volleyball utilizes several muscle groups that I don't normally use in my daily life. Mainly abs, lower back, and shoulders. And I'm pretty sure your knees are NOT supposed to pop and crack like a bag of microwave popcorn. My forearms look (and feel) like someone has taken a baseball bat to them and my knee that I landed on while diving for a ball is now swollen like a purple grapefruit. But, let me remind you, I am not old. Just bruised, battered and possibly in denial.
So today I'll be doing the 4-hour dosing of Advil while I sip my tea and ice my aching body parts. And if you smell Ben-Gay, it's probably me. But just remember, I AM NOT OLD.