My father called me “speedburner” when I was small
and would zoom down the block and jump into his arms

Now I could just as soon run as fly

I have loved riding bikes, playing volleyball (an annoying stickler for rules!),
falling down and popping up again to go dancing

I have danced in circles and under the scintillae of disco balls

My dancing is different from the way it was twenty years ago

or even ten

Now I am slow

I move slowly and painfully and relearn my body more slowly still
in every yoga class I take

I move and stretch and try not to cry
over the spilt milk of decades of injuries I ignored because
“there’s nothing to do when you’re fat”

I move and stretch and feel my muscles working

I try not to compare
to my former selves
to other yogis
to fat people without injuries, the ones who move so beautifully

I try
and fail
and try again

When I could run, I was crazy

crazy, as Pamela would say, as a shit-house rat

This life is not a trade-off

Still, I would rather be happy
wise
and slow
than
careening against the winding
corridors of life.