Getting Old is a Bitch!

This evening, I learned how old I really am. My sister and her family came over this evening to swim. The guys were all doing flips off the diving board, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. I hadn't tried doing flips since the summer before I was pregnant, which was in 2007. So I made a couple attempts, and failed both times miserably, even losing an earring during one attempt. Then I thought I'd stick to what I know best, cartwheels! So I do one cartwheel, and my sister happily points out that my husbands cartwheel off the diving board was better than mine. She said, "Come on you can't let him beat you, you were a cheerleader!" So I agree, no construction rough handed male is going to beat me at a cartwheel. I was a cheerleader! So I climb back up to the diving board. I raise my hands perfectly above my head, point my right foot, and hurl myself onto my hands, throwing my legs up perfectly straight and falling over into the water in an outstanding round off. The only problem was, is that I focused so much on form, I forgot to worry about projecting myself (when your old, you don't multi-task as well). Which means, I didn't end up in front of the diving board, as much as I did right below it and off to the side. So when I hit the water, my feet were perfectly together, and straight. Then to "My Daily Surprise", it happened. I learned how old I was, and that I no longer have an ounce of high school cheerleader left in a single bone in my body. My body proved it by my left foot hitting the slope against the wall, and bending my ankle sideways as far as it would go. I instantly thought it was broken. It would have been better if it was, because then I would have had a reason for acting like such a baby. At least then, I would have been to the ER, got a cast, had great meds, and an awesome pair of crutches that showed the world that I was legitimately injured. As it stands now, I've got a pink bandanna wrapped tightly around my swollen ankle, a zip lock bag of ice on it, I've settled for crawling through the house on my knees in an attempt to keep from walking on it, and I've bribed my two year old with candy to bring me a throw pillow to prop it up on. All I can think is, "Getting Old is a Bitch!"