Midlife Is Boring; Not!

Unwanted things started happening to my body when I turned forty. For unknown reasons, my joints began creaking each time I woke up in the morning and lumbered out of bed. It was as though they had been dislocated in my sleep and were therefore trying to inch back into their proper grooves. It took some amount of stretching, bending, and grunting to get my circulation running, my muscles warmed up, and my spine realigned. My body has since turned into something of a diesel engine—hard starting.

Gradually, I had to refrain from the strenuous activities I once truly enjoyed: Ashtanga yoga, singles tennis, flag football, Krav Maga (Israeli self defense) and Muay Thai (Thai kickboxing). I ignored it at first—the almost imperceptible time delay between the brain’s command and the body’s reaction. But in martial arts, a fraction of a second’s delay could mean a bloody nose or a cut lip. This slowing down of reflexes, once caused my upper lip to blossom into a cauliflower during boxing practice courtesy of an over zealous sparring partner. The liver lips made me look like a silicon-filled mouth that sprouted a head so pride eventually gave way to vanity. After that, I disengaged from all sport and turned to baking for solace. One night, when all but the kitchen lights were off, I scampered downstairs to the oven, preoccupied by the cake that needed to be retrieved as soon as the timer burst into a ring. I missed a step, tumbled over and down five more rungs, and badly sprained an ankle. There wasn’t any real obstacle that may have caused the fall—only myself; as my brother said, “walang kalaban.”

These days, I limit myself to sparring only with books, while sprawled on my bed, protected by fluffy pillows. Baking has been abandoned for less physically demanding activities such as internet surfing.

On a recent trip to Vancouver, British Columbia, I was quite content to be cloistered indoors, shut off from the four-degree outdoor temperature and the howling winds. I burrowed under the duvet with Orhan Pamuk’s latest novel and was truly looking forward to spending the next several days in the exact same state, horizontal and undisturbed.

An extreme outdoor adventure was therefore farthest from my mind but the relentless cajoling of my brother-in-law and his wife, weekend warriors and adrenalin junkies both was too much to bear. You see, their tandem, quite known in the sporting circles of Manila, is a formidable husband-wife duo of triathletes, dive masters, underwater hockey players, wake boarders and yes, alpine skiers. I, on the other hand, am none of the above. And because they had posed a challenge to my middle-aged, floundering ego, it was too late when I realized that I had compromised myself. All I could do was hope that by osmosis—in the many years that I had spent with them—some of their spunk had rubbed off on me. I’m an adherent of the trickle down effect, I’ll have you know. If their 14 and 12-year-old daughters can do it, I should be able to as well; or so I thought.

I geared up in an over-sized relic of a ski suit—some plus-sized person’s discard—which we had found in a box in the basement. With a good helping of delusion, I went with them to Blackcomb Mountain in Whistler Valley and took my 11-year-old daughter and 9-year-old son along for the ride, “to share in the fun and excitement,” I told everyone. But in truth and fact, I just didn’t want to be the only novice. Don’t tell.

In the punishing cold, we took the ski gondola to mid-mountain, Excalibur, level. The first sight of the snow-blanketed surface—pristine white with a slight tinge of blue from sunlight filtered through migrant clouds—was so inviting. Plus, the practice bunny slope for beginners, no more than a bump on the ground, posed no threat whatsoever. So I unleashed my middle-aged-body-on-skis upon that seemingly benign anthill and instantly, my limbs flew off in opposing directions: one leg taking off here; the other pushing back there; the right arm fighting for balance with the aid of a ski pole planted firmly on the ground; the left frantically signaling the closest warm body for help. The brain, sensing immediate danger, enforced code red upon the motor muscles to regain control but the middle-aged body, having a mind of its own, was irretrievably on free fall.

Thank heavens for middle-age spread; I am now testament that the human buttocks can take crushing blows. However, this same life-saving attribute interferes with getting up unassisted from a bad wipe-out position. The pull of gravity on a heavy rear end has magnetic properties that glue middle-aged people to the ground. I couldn’t get myself up. You laugh? Let’s see you do it!

After two hours worth of bunny slope practice I convinced myself that I had been transformed into Michaela Dorfmeister of Austria, Olympic alpine skiing gold medalist. My relatives declared that they had had enough of a warmup and were now ready to tackle monstrous Black Comb Mountain. I didn’t want to be the only adult left on that pathetic bunny hill with dozens of toddlers so I insisted to coming along. Plus, seeing my son and daughter comfortably tackling the slope boosted my self-confidence. In spite of the ski host’s firm pronouncement: “Beginners must stay on the bunny slope!” I had declared myself good and ready for an easy run down the mountain. Hah!

Armed with an iron will power and not much else, I took the ski lift up to Excelerator base hanging onto my nieces for dear life. Murphy must have had me in mind when he formulated all his theories. “Splattt,” was the sound of my rear end as it hit the flat ground on which I was supposed to alight, upright and effortlessly, like everyone else. Like an omen of things to come, that clumsy fall came to bear on the rest of the afternoon’s events.

Lunch was next on the agenda and the ski chalet where it was to be served was several moguls down an incline, which to me appeared like a white abyss. With the tips of my skis touching the lip of the drop, I peered down and saw not the bottom of the mountain but vignettes of my past in split second flashes. I broke into profuse sweat and was convinced that the layers of clothing under my fat suit were piled on one too many. Could it have been fear, you ask? No, not that; it was more like sheer terror. And so I said to myself, a la Bruce Willis in the movie, The Last Boy Scout, “I will not die today.”

Sure, I was set back several dollars for that Snow limo—a sled manually towed by the ski patrol, which services geriatric sightseers for a tour of the mountain. Geriatric sightseers in Blackcomb mountain—an oxymoron? And shouldn’t they just stay home and knit, watch the TV shopping network, or curl up in bed with a good book perhaps?

The ski limo delivered me to the doorstep of the chalet as though I were an 80-year-old invalid but hey, Brad Pitt wasn’t on the premises so who cares? A bowl of steaming hot chili topped with melted cheddar reignited my courage and since I wasn’t one to back down from the challenge of my children to ski the easiest route back, I did, or at least I attempted to.

The infinite patience of my sister-in-law is the reason I am still breathing, which means I didn’t disappear down some ravine, nor was I swallowed by snow-covered earth. But it was not without incident—I’m talking groin splitting slip-slides; feet-in-the-air butt flops; run-away-train-careening-down-the-slope-screaming-for-divine-intervention tumbles; and just plain snow-eating-bad-ass falls; you know, that sort. No big deal, really.

Many times I asked myself, “Why am I doing this again?” The answer to which was, “Why not?” There might not be a better time to try something new or do something adventurous. I’m definitely not waiting until I’m sixty. A badly bruised butt is not much collateral damage for the spiffy photos I had them take of me in complete ski regalia and in the perfect skier’s stance as proof that I had conquered Black Comb Mountain. They vowed not to tell anyone otherwise. I literally took a peek at life from the edge and it wasn’t half as bad as I had imagined. Midlife doesn’t have to be a surrender to everything safe and predictable. I don’t have to spend it cocooned in a duvet. True, my body ached for a week; I walked crouched and bow-legged like a cowboy with a thoroughbred still in between his thighs. But what was punishing to my body did wonders for my spirit. I now contemplate rappelling down a mountain next but not without the perfect outfit on. So first, to shop!