There I was, standing in the kitchen at 5 this morning, making coffee and preparing myself for the trek down the driveway to fetch the newspaper. I really dislike that piece of my predictable morning routine. I trudged along, thinking of a happy time thirty years ago when I took a break from the news business and was a fellow in Cambridge. Three mornings each week I would run ten miles along the Charles River. It was autumn. The crew team would be out in the early morning chill. I would try to keep pace with them. I grabbed the Times on this day and hobbled indoors, feeling a bit wistful and sorry for myself. Self-indulgence on parade. What is the matter with me?
I am on my feet. Tomorrow, I probably still will be able to stand up and move forward, however slowly. I go to see the doctor and walk by those in wheelchairs or on scooters, walkers or whatever. How can I play the victim? There are a few frames of reference available to us for bringing perspective to loss. Which we choose goes a long way to defining attitude.
We can drag out the memory of what we once were, the image of jogging that takes us nowhere. Aging, alone, diminishes us physically. Who among us has not changed? Or we can look around us, see suffering, and be thankful for what we continue to be. The choice is ours. It is not between Polydamas and Pollyanna. And I am no legendary Greek Olympian. Keep it real, I remind myself.
The attitude wars are not a new subject for us but one worth revisiting from time to time. Many with pronounced physical limitations live in our heads. Often it feels as if we have nothing but time, and we muse ourselves to death. The more we can feel and believe we do not have it so bad, the happier we can be.