Ain’t no party like an 85 year old’s party, ’cause an 85 year old’s party don’t stop!

*screeeeech* *dj takes the needle off the record*

Somewhere between having a boatload of fun this summer and starting my awesome new job (more on that soon but, goodnight Irene, I love it), I fractured my hip.

My doctor thought it was a pinched nerve – and in his defense, so did I – because it felt similar to a pinched nerve I had years ago. He put me on a course of steroids which, ironically, made the fracture LESS likely to heal. All of my theater friends are going to scream because I just used irony incorrectly, but I mean the situational kind and also, I just took a course of steroids so I dare you to tell me I’m doing it wrong.

When the steroids didn’t help, I thought maybe it was a tendon or something related to running, because running hurt bad. So I tried biking, which was even worse and walking hurt most of all. See, there it is again. Irony is that friend who shows up and you think you’ve missed him because he keeps you on your toes and makes life interesting, but a few days later he’s just annoying and he kind of smells like fish.

Anyway, I tried working out the pain and working through the pain and that was just stupid. Which makes me like my friend, Irony. Though that would be a cool name and Irony doesn’t deserve to be called cool. Remember when George on Seinfeld wanted to name his kid “Seven?” That would’ve been a cool name, except it makes me think about Brad Pitt’s wife and her severed head in a box. Other than that? Super cool name.

Finally, my trainer recommended I see a sports medicine doctor, so I got a referral and x-rays and now I can’t really do anything for 4-6 weeks other than expand my waistline. The other option is to go ahead and do stuff and risk breaking my hip and needing a hip replacement at 44 years old. I can exercise my upper body as long as I’m sitting, so I’ve been working on my 12 ounce curls.

The upside is that now I have more time to write. Lucky you. I had to hurt myself in order to have the time to put you through this pain. Ironic, don’t you think?

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When I was young my mom used to tell me to taste every kind of food I was offered; if I didn’t like it I would never have to eat it again. It turned out that that only thing I didn’t like were radishes. For nearly four decades I ate everything but radishes, because radishes tasted like dirt.

Until a few days ago.

Last week I ate a delicious radish. I had a radish awakening, if you will. And, if you won’t, please pass the radish over here.

© Alexey Lisovoy | Dreamstime Stock Photos

I’m actually not speaking metaphorically – or maybe I am – it doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is that you should never stop trying new things. Ever. Even if the new things are old things. You might suddenly find that they are the perfect blend of spicy goodness.

Never shut down possibilities, because sometimes there is just enough evolution within you, or a radish, to change your perception. Unless we’re talking about liking the current country music landscape, because there aren’t enough days left on earth to make me evolve that much.

But, what if there are other things I’ve put off that I might enjoy? Maybe I’ll wear bright colors instead of black, sit at the bars in restaurants and drink a different kind of beer every time I do, learn to play guitar, sing out loud even though I can’t carry a tune, and stop being afraid.

Maybe I’ll eat more radishes.

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The past few weeks have been tough; not as tough as I thought they would be because there is some peace that comes after the kind of anxiety I was facing. Not knowing where your future lies is terrifying – and that’s where I was for months. At least now I know where I stand – squarely on the other side of the door.

I have continued running to lift my spirits (and my hind end), I have been making my bed every day, buying healthy food, going to church, showering, working and fixing things around my apartment. I am in constant contact with friends and family whose love and support are a lifeline. I am moving. I don’t know if I’m moving forward yet, but it’s at least in some direction.

The other day, I even put on lipstick.

That afternoon, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by my front door and thought, this is no beauty queen, but considering what I’ve been through, it will do just fine. My hair was curled, my green eyes weren’t red and puffy, my cheeks weren’t splotchy, my under-eye, black circles were reduced to sepia. This? This was progress.

I plastered on a smile and took a picture for proof. My mother, she worries.

And, then I saw it.

Do you see it? Look. LOOOOOOOOOK.

It’s chicken neck. Leathery, wrinkly, 43-year old chicken neck. I had a momentary pause, mouth agape, at what was staring back at me from my phone. Where did that come from?

Then I realized how I ended up with skin that makes roosters swoon. That patch of neck is from too many days of soaking up delicious, warm, wonderful sunshine.

It’s from sitting at my daughter’s softball games, taking my son to the pool, drinking warm Natural Light on spring break. That chicken neck is a badge of honor for so many great times, I can’t even count. It’s a reminder that there are good, smooth, carefree times even when it appears everything is wrinkled.

It’s also a clear sign I need to up the SPF.

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I currently have the urge to do adventurous things, which is not a place I have considered being for a long, long time. In fact, I’ve been scared to do much of anything, but sometimes you come to a point where you feel you have nothing to lose.

There are certain adventures I’ve always wanted to go on. My dream is to drive across the country in an RV, end up at the Grand Canyon and canoe down the Colorado River, camping along its banks each night. That’s a pricey trip, though; I’ve looked into it. So, first I need to hit the lottery.

I’ve wanted to hike in Zion National Park, stand under redwood trees, and take a helicopter trip above an active volcano (also pricey; we looked into it).

But, more often than not, I take the safe route. Don’t get me wrong, if there’s lightning I’m taking cover, and I won’t scuba dive or jump out of an airplane – though, maybe those things will come with time. For now, I’m taking baby steps to face my fears.

This morning, I got up at 4:15am to go for a run in the dark. I never would’ve considered that before. Ever. Sure, it’s more stupid than it is adventurous, but there’s a fine line between them anyway. Fortunately, there was snow on the ground so I climbed back into bed.

Maybe it’s my age, my kids’ ages or because I’ve had to come to terms with losing myself to find myself again. I feel like I’ve been asleep for a very long time.

What’s next? I don’t know. What I do know is that I want my heart to race from something other than anxiety.

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