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Ok, so it’s something I must grudgingly do, but do, nonetheless.

I am old.

Not old in the senile, tell-you-the-same-story-20-times kind of way, but definitely in the these-bones-can’t-move-like-they-used-to-move kind of way.

I have irrefutable evidence: I think I’ve either cracked a rib, or bruised the crap out of one.

How, you ask?

Playing football (tackle, not touch) with Second Son, Prima Donna Daughter and BabyNephew this afternoon.

Yes, you read that right: tackle football with a 14 y/o, an 8 y/o and a 4 y/o. Can you guess who tackled me which led to my introduction to the solid earth and the subsequent cracking/bruising of my rib? Yes, Second Son.

We’re fairly evenly matched where gravity is concerned: he’s 4 inches taller than me, but I have 30 pounds on him. What I was NOT thinking about is he is the starting center on the freshman football squad and practices 5 days/week. My most developed muscle? It’s a toss-up between my brain, my tongue and these 10 fingers flying at light speed across this keyboard.

Duh. This old gray mare ain’t what she used to be…at least not where tackle football is concerned.

Damn.

Keepin' it real in the bloggerhood,

Suzanne

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