Few of us will ever run a marathon. Several years ago, I won a 5K run for women in my age range (coming within a hair's breadth of beating the first place male) and I'm still bragging about it. I haven't run competitively since because there's nowhere to go from there but down. And I get older every day that I stay alive.
My point is that running 27 miles is more than most of us are up to, especially as we age. People do it, but it takes a lot of training. It takes a lot of commitment of both time and energy. And it takes the willingness to push through the wall you hit when your body say "no." From what I understand, it's that last factor that really makes the difference. And that's the topic of today's post.
Last week, I wrote about why we should feel perfectly all right applying for and spending Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (better known as SNAP) funds. One of the reasons this is on my mind is that in the summer, I don't get paid. And regardless of how much I've put away to cover my basic bills out of the salary I get from September through May, the summer months provide a challenge. Then, if my car battery dies (like it did last week), I find myself stressing not unlike I did in the bad ole days.
Then I start thinking about those who live on a fixed income because they're retired or collecting disability benefits or unemployed or unable to work for whatever reason. They have to worry every month -- not just in the summer. And at 70 years of age, I could very easily be one of them any time now. So it helps to know that SNAP exists. But I have some other things I'm doing right now to help me get the nutritious food I need and keep my glucose in check.
Some of you might be surprised to learn that a woman who teaches college full-time at the age of 70 spent a decade on food stamps earlier in her life. And I make no apology for it. I got my first job at 13, worked in high school, and started paying income tax while I was still an adolescent. Not to mention sales tax and all of the other taxes and fees I've paid through the years to support our system that so often doesn't support us.
For my first five years on food stamps, I had two small children, no child support, and no college degree. That was before Bill Clinton ushered in the policies that forced women into jobs that could not begin to keep their kids from going hungry. So I could receive assistance for five years, during which time it helped my kids and me to eat. Not well, but regularly.
Three weeks ago, I stood in front of an audience of 1900 strangers and admitted that I'm seventy years old. I had to work up to the admission for a month before the event. I had spent some years already telling people, "I'm really, really old." But I couldn't typically find the nerve to casually admit my age in conversations. Except with my doctor. Or a very close friend. And then only in a whisper.
I cracked jokes about it in front of my students in class. "I would tell you how old I am," I'd say, "but I'm afraid they'd come make me retire." Or I'd quip on a different occasion, "I'm perfectly fine with getting old. There's only two options, you know: getting old or getting dead -- and I'm not nearly ready to get dead yet."
