Sissy
I’m turning into a sissy in my old(er) age; even more than I’ve always been in my young(er) days.
Like today, in yoga class, I bailed early on a couple of simple poses, even though nearly all the other students in the class, (nearly all of whom were girls), persevered—all because it hurt my wittle inkum winkums too terrible bad.
Or later, at the dentist for a teeth cleaning, I was all squirmy like a baby when the hygienist came at me with the sonic cleaning device and I felt little tears spring to my eyes when she scraped away the tartar on my mandibular central incisors.
Then, coming home, I felt frightened by the prospect of hills I was facing; as I pedaled on the flat of the Burke-Gilman trail, the climb up from Montlake to the Central District seemed so daunting that I almost gave it up and took a bus, even though I was riding the Tournesol, which goes up more easily than yo’ mama goes down.
It’s probably a result of the relaxed lifestyle I’ve been leading this summer; since I’m generally not having to do many things that I don’t want to do, I’ve gotten out of the habit of sucking it up and dealing. When the hardest trial I face most days is trying to keep my ass in my chair for an hour or two of writing about classroom exercises to stimulate philosophical thinking in pre-college students, it’s not surprising that anything slightly more difficult than opening a beer bottle without a churchkey turns out to be a struggle.
So, it’s not clear to me whether my newfound sissyhood is a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, you might see it as an increased sensitivity to my own feelings, a closer connection to who I really am. On the other, I may just have turned into a fucking pussy.
But don’t say that; I’ll cry.
Like today, in yoga class, I bailed early on a couple of simple poses, even though nearly all the other students in the class, (nearly all of whom were girls), persevered—all because it hurt my wittle inkum winkums too terrible bad.
Or later, at the dentist for a teeth cleaning, I was all squirmy like a baby when the hygienist came at me with the sonic cleaning device and I felt little tears spring to my eyes when she scraped away the tartar on my mandibular central incisors.
Then, coming home, I felt frightened by the prospect of hills I was facing; as I pedaled on the flat of the Burke-Gilman trail, the climb up from Montlake to the Central District seemed so daunting that I almost gave it up and took a bus, even though I was riding the Tournesol, which goes up more easily than yo’ mama goes down.
It’s probably a result of the relaxed lifestyle I’ve been leading this summer; since I’m generally not having to do many things that I don’t want to do, I’ve gotten out of the habit of sucking it up and dealing. When the hardest trial I face most days is trying to keep my ass in my chair for an hour or two of writing about classroom exercises to stimulate philosophical thinking in pre-college students, it’s not surprising that anything slightly more difficult than opening a beer bottle without a churchkey turns out to be a struggle.
So, it’s not clear to me whether my newfound sissyhood is a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, you might see it as an increased sensitivity to my own feelings, a closer connection to who I really am. On the other, I may just have turned into a fucking pussy.
But don’t say that; I’ll cry.
posted by Professor Dave at 5:04 PM
1 Comments:
I know what you mean - I'm becoming a wimp, myself. I think it's because, as we age, we're getting more old & brittle, like mom used to say, so we're more afraid of hurting ourselves. Though, of course, when mom was insisting we go easy on her because she was so old & brittle, she was the absolute picture of ruddy good health, and surely could have mopped up the floor with either one of us ...
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