Sometimes I'll see a nice looking piece of fruit in a bowl, but when I pick it up and inspect it closer or go as far as to take a bite out of it, I realize it isn't very fresh. In fact, the overly ripe fruit is probably closer to rotten than it is fresh. That's the analogy that seems to apply to my life at this point in time. Don't get me wrong, at 47-years-old, I'm not writing myself off as rotten or dead, but I am getting pretty far along like that piece of fruit that's been passed over.
If life were condensed into the 12 months of the year, middle to late August is probably where one would find me. However, as I look at the world around me here in mid-October with the Wyoming autumn on the wane, I seem to relate to much of its imagery.
At first glance, most strangers probably think I'm in decent shape, but any feats of athletics from my youthful past are either impossible or dangerous if I were to try them now. The other day I looked at a wide open field and thought to myself how inviting it was to perform a series of back handsprings (i.e., flip-flops) across the soft turf as I used to twenty-some years ago. Considering the havoc it might wreak on my middle-aged wrists, back and ankles, I opted for a few simple cartwheels and called it good. Another twenty-some years from now, I'll probably have to settle for simply walking across that same field.
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