The First Time Aging Hits You

I came home from the Moyer house absolutely smoked. That place — the last property I still own up there in Souderton — has been eating my days alive while I get it ready to sell. I’m crawling around, fixing this, replacing that, painting everything, patching that, hauling junk out like I’m still twenty‑five and getting paid by the hour. And of course it’s ninety‑three degrees, because the universe has a sense of humor.

By the time I pulled into my driveway back home, I looked like I’d been dragged behind my own truck. But those three acres of grass were standing there waiting for me, waving like, “Hey big guy, you forgot about us.” And I did what I always do — I talked right back.

“Alright, alright, relax. I’ll cut you.”

And yeah, I fast all day. Been doing it forever. Never slowed me down. Never even crossed my mind that it could slow me down. Not my style. And with August coming — the month I’ll be entering my seventieth year on this planet — I’ve still been running around like I’m bulletproof.

So I fire up the commercial 48″ walk‑behind mower, the beast, and start mowing like I’m trying to beat a thunderstorm that isn’t even in the forecast. First acre goes down easy. Second acre is hot, but nothing I haven’t handled before. Then I hit the third acre, and that’s when something in me shifted.

About three‑quarters of the way through, my body just… stopped. Not dramatically. No warning signs. No pain. No dizziness. Just this sudden emptiness, like someone reached inside me and unplugged the power cord. One second I’m pushing the mower, the next I’m leaning on it wondering what the hell just happened.

I actually said it out loud: “What is THIS?”

Like the grass was gonna answer me.

I looked at the last quarter of the lawn and muttered, “If I don’t cut this now, I’m gonna be out here three times tomorrow.” That’s how my brain works — stubborn, practical, allergic to doing anything twice. But my body, which apparently has its own vote now, just said, “Not today, pal.”

And that’s when it hit me.

Not the heat.

Not the work.

Not the fasting.

Aging.

That number in August suddenly felt real. Not scary — just real. Because aging doesn’t tap you on the shoulder when you’re blowing out candles or looking at a driver’s license. It taps you when your body says no to something it’s said yes to your whole life.

I stood there staring at that last stretch of grass like it was mocking me. “This isn’t me,” I said. “I finish things. I don’t quit.” But I wasn’t quitting. I was cooked. The heat, the long day, the fasting — it all stacked up. And for the first time ever, I couldn’t just muscle through it.

Later, once I cooled off and stopped being mad at the grass — which, by the way, did absolutely nothing wrong — I realized nothing had changed. I didn’t suddenly become old. I didn’t suddenly lose my strength. I just hit the limit of what any human body can do on a brutal day.

Aging doesn’t stop you.

It just changes the conversation between you and your body.

Sometimes the body wins a round.

But the fight?

That’s still on.

And I’ll finish that lawn.

Maybe today.

Maybe tomorrow.

But I’ll finish it.