10-31-02 Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb
Competition from Dad
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
According to my two older sons, and my husband himself (when he admits it), one of the constant themes to the thrice weekly soccer practices he holds for his under-16 team is "if I can do this (insert item of challenge here, such as "run two miles" "do 200 push-ups") and I am FORTY-TWO YEARS OLD, then surely you can do this too." When my oldest son first told me about the way my hubby used his age to shame the kids into physical activity exceeding their lazy attitudes, I was amused.
"First of all," I said, "your father is only forty-one years old. He won't be forty-two until January."
"I know." My son said, "But I guess he thinks it sounds better if he makes himself a little older."
"Secondly," I continued, "he has been training for almost a year now, so naturally he is going to be in pretty good shape."
"He just likes to feel young." My son theorized.
"Well, not me." I said, parking the car in the garage. "I don't claim to feel young. I feel pretty darn old sometimes." I half-ways waited for my son to contradict me; to tell me that I certainly didn't LOOK, at least, any where near my age.
Silence.
"I don't look like a forty year old woman, do I?" I finally asked.
"I don't know, Mom!" My son sighed the big huffy sigh of, "why do we have to go down this alley now, when I was just feet away from escaping to my bedroom?"
I shouted after his retreating back, "I won't be forty until May, you know!"
Last night my husband talked me into coming to the soccer field/track to do my running. I was reluctant to do so because frankly, I enjoy running under the forgiving cover of darkness in my neighborhood. The way I figure it is, no matter how great the results FROM running are- the actual process, at least with me, involves a lot of huffing, moderate to extreme puffing, and sweaty hair and ugly clothing- not the way I want to be seen in public. My husband's soccer team consists of about 65% high school boys, mostly my eldest's friends, and 35% girls and junior high boys. Frankly, though my husband may be able to out do them on any given day (according to his much proclaimed decree) I didn't feel up to running in front of them. Finally, though, reason gave in- the track is a much smoother, easier run than our very hilly neighborhood, and I still had sore muscles from the previous night's weight training session.
When I ran onto the track, the kids didn't even look up from their practice. Good, I thought, it is almost as if I were running in the night. No one is noticing me. Setting my youngest onto his scooter and sending him zooming off ahead of me, I set my pace and completed a quarter mile. It was then that Justin, one of the high school kids, waved at me. "What a nice, friendly, boy." I thought to myself, and continued to bear down on the next quarter mile. I looked up to see Justin running towards me.
"Hey." He said, and then he recognized me. "Errrr...... Mrs. Herb."
"Hi Justin." I panted, continuing to run.
He looked embarrassed. "I, umm, well, I thought you were one of my friends."
"One of your HIGH SCHOOL FRIENDS?!" I asked. (I am sorry, I truly couldn't stop myself.)
"Ummm. Yeah. Sorry." He ran back to the field.
"Justin!" I shouted after him.
"Yes Ma'am?" He replied (darn, we were back to Ma'am!)
"Thanks for thinking I was a high school kid!" I shouted, and sprinted away. I have to admit that there was a new lilt to my running for the rest of the evening; if I had been mistaken (albeit in the near dark and only for a second) for a teenager; I couldn't look THAT BAD, now could I?
"I did pretty good for a forty year old woman." I said, in a Barney Fifelike puffed up voice of self importance as I buckled my youngest into his booster seat.
"Mom." He reminded me. "You won't be forty until May."