© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Cub Scouts, age, injury, ribs, humorous blog, funny, smile, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
The sun was shining; the grass was growing. On the lawn in front of the 4th ward church house, Cub Scouts ran and hopped like kangaroos on amphetamines. They expended energy without even thinking about it being a precious commodity. Probably because they weren’t fifty-something.
After a few minutes, the boys moved farther away and my brain said, “You’d better think up something for these little guys to do before they scatter to the four corners of the cosmos.”
Normally my body does what my brain says, and this time was no exception. My arms waved in a graceful, fashion model way and my mouth called, “Hey, boys, come over here.”
George* turned and said. “Gee, Sister Beck, the way your arms are moving makes you look just like a train-crossing sign. Cool.”
My body gave up on the graceful wave, put two fingers into my mouth and blasted out a whistle that could be heard in the next county. The boys came running.
“Okay, Cubs,” my mouth said, “let’s do something fun before we go inside and start the meeting. Any suggestions?”
Blond-haired Jeff scratched his cowlick and shouted in my ear, “Let’s do rooster fights!”
That is why God gave all women two ears … so they still have one that can hear after their scouting days are finished.
Little Billy scratched his armpit, made it burp, and then said, “Let’s race each other.”
And that’s where my brain abandoned me. It could have been the spring breeze that caused it to feel like a teenager once more. But then again, the lack of caution could have been created by a sugar high from the sixteen-ounce bag of Marshmallow Goobers that I'd just polished off. At any rate, my mind said, “Sure, races would be a lot of fun.”
My body shouted its objection with a vehement, “No!”
Suddenly, and without prior approval, my mouth said, “Come on, boys—last one to touch the tree is a dead skunk.”
“No, no, NO,” my fifty-something body hollered at my brain, while pumping adrenaline like there was an emergency about to take place. “Russ would not be happy if he knew we were out here running and playing like a kid—especially when we're pushing sixty-years old! He’d tell us that a broken wrist, broken nose, broken ankle … no, wait, two broken ankles … when we were younger should have taught us something. Not to mention that broken elbow last year that laid us up for …”
“We’re not anywhere near sixty. Shut up and run,” my brain said.
“Oh look,” my body said, as my feet tripped over each other while racing across the lawn. “Look at how fast the ground comes toward us when we bite the dust at fifty-something.”
The next day the doctor held up the x-rays. “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that you didn't break any ribs.”
My brain beamed with a “nah-ner, nah-ner” attitude. “See, I told you we could still run,” it said to my body.
The doctor shifted the x-ray under the lamp. “The bad news is the ribs are cracked. There’s nothing that can be done except to let them heal on their own.”
My body puffed up with pride at being right. Or maybe it was with fluids from the cracked ribs. “See, I told you the ground was a lot harder at fifty-something,” it said to my mind.
“Not fifty-something,” my dirty-traitor brain replied. “More like pushing sixty.”
*Names have been changed to protect the good, the bad, and the one with a two-week-old bologna sandwich in his backpack.
What's playing in my head: When I'm Sixty-four by the Beatles.
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