The Aging Atlas

The images of the Titan, Atlas, holding a celestial sphere on his shoulders reflect a muscular man whom we envision easily carrying any burden laid upon him. We strive to emulate that Titan, carrying the weight of building a career and caring for a family. In the process, we stress ourselves to the max, resulting in insomnia and anxiety, turning to Prozac and other remedies to aid in our journeys.

            What impact will these efforts have on our bodies? The Atlas of myth remains strong, eternally steadfast in the judgment meted out to him by Zeus for his rebellion. Humans, however, are not as stalwart. On my daily walks, I observe people of all ages. The young mother running as she pushes her baby in a stroller up the hill in front of her. The middle-aged woman briskly walking her dog before she heads to work. But there’s no mistaking the old folks like me. They move at a slower pace, often with an overweight, gray-around-the-muzzle dog plodding along beside them. Their shoulders are bent and often one hip is higher than the other, resulting in a shuffling gait. The years have taken a toll on their posture, their skeletons askew from years of strain. Unlike Atlas, we are not Titans, able to forever bear the weight of the world.

            The other day, I noticed a woman walking one block ahead of me. Her body was bent, waist angled to the left, making it appear that she could be folded sideways, right shoulder meeting right ankle. I inwardly gave thanks to my long-ago piano teacher’s insistence on good posture, assuring me I would never look like that. But maybe that’s fantasy thinking and I’m blind to my own appearance. I’ve been weighted down by life: cancer, divorce, the challenges of parenting, getting fired from a job, being uprooted through several moves. All those things are bound to take a toll.

            Within minutes of seeing the bent woman, I felt excruciating pain in my right foot. No, I didn’t stumble or step on a rock, just walking normally until suddenly I wasn’t. I turned to retrace my steps, knowing I wasn’t up to my expected three miles. I considered sticking out my thumb to beg a ride, my eyes brimming with tears, but I slowly made it home with my foot swollen and bruised. Broken bone? Probably. It happened to my other foot three years ago, my normal low-impact walk snapping a metatarsal bone. Aging body, fragile bones.

            Whatever bit of Atlas I had in my DNA has apparently succumbed to being human.