I used to be athletic. I’m sure some people would shush me if I said that out loud: “Aw, come on, you’re still athletic!”
I’d still disagree. Yes, I can still run around a bit and lift some weight; I can still do some bodyweight exercises at an average level. I’m thankful for that, especially after the summer I had, exercising chiefly through walking (a lot, to be fair).
During my missions trip in India and my concentrated study abroad trip in Italy, I had little time or energy to work out. Combined with the amazing but not-so-health-conscious food I enjoyed on both trips, my body is even less “athletic” than it was in May, at the end of my first year off of year-round sports since 7th grade.
And I’m going to be honest: it’s hard to be less athletic. I’d currently classify myself as an Average Joe “fit” person. And many people would say, “So what? I’m not fit at all.”
I know. I’m vain and maybe even spoiled with fitness. I’ve been stronger and leaner and more able than most girls for quite a few years, and getting better all the time! Then, I retired, and naturally, all that went downhill.
I go to the gym and I try to eat decently (although the bakery job, demanding and veritably flowing with sugar, refined flours, and fats, is certainly doing its lovable best to foil me). I am thankful that I can afford it financially and physically.
I’m simply not an athlete anymore. But that’s okay, because I’ve been trying to cement my identity in something eternal for a long time. That effort keeps getting stronger and the successes more rewarding.