My daughter, 11, and I, 59, went kayaking on Onondaga Lake today, a warmish day with bright sun and blazing pastel cerulean (ain't that oxymoronic?) sky.
You can rent a two-seater for $8 an hour. What a bargain!
That's not counting the post-kayaking massage therapy and acupuncture and orthopedist and chiropractor fees, HAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!
Based on one limited experience about six or seven years ago, or seven or eight, who can keep track anymore, I thought it'd be easy.
The paddling wasn't too bad.
It was my lower back and my haunches.
I ain't fat but I am obviously stiff and inflexible (metaphor junkies, have at it).
I backrest would've helped enormously (many kayaks have such supporters).
My daughter tried to be a coxswain of sorts, cheering us on, chiding my poor rhythm and lack of staying power.
It was faintly depressing.
I'm this pathetic? I've come to this?
What comes next? I become a Sarah Palin supporter?
How low do I go?
Still, and truly, I reflected upon surviving the experience that, alas, we were alive and well and in the game and giving it a go and having at it.
Sounds small and cynical.
But, no, really, I am grateful.
We did it.
Age quod agis.
No one can erase it.