Force Home

Well, I've gone and done it.
I went back to ultimate last night after a 3-year hiatus.

There's a regular pick-up game in the area, and....wait, what? Pick-up? PICK-UP?! You mean the kind of ultimate where half the people are in running shoes, there is rarely a semblance of an offensive or defensive strategy, and everyone is just running around aimlessly? Yes, that kind of ultimate. The kind of ultimate that, 3 years ago I would have eschewed as novice, not worth my time. But as I drove up to the park (on an absolutely perfect 75-degree spring evening), and as I ran some warm-up laps around the field and felt my joints creek, I was nervous.

Though I've maintained my physical activity over the course of pregnancies and children, it's different. I haven't sprinted, except to pull a 2-year-old away from an outlet or from putting a plug in his mouth. I was nervous. Would I even be able to throw a disc? Would I remember the rules? And most terrifyingly...would I even be able to keep pace with the people at pick-up?

I guess 3 years couldn't erase the previous 16. As soon as the first pull went, I transformed. As much as I was grateful to hear from people before the game started that this pick-up is super laid-back, I couldn't help myself. I caught my first pass, and then it began. Vocal Becky. Handler Becky. Gratuitous hammer-throwing Becky. I was counting stalls without realizing I was saying anything. I yelled "up" when no one else was saying a word. I was recruited for 2 different club teams.

But, no, my legs were definitely not there. I was mostly covering an in-season college woman, who was burning me deep constantly. But unlike in my 20s, I didn't really care. I didn't try to keep up because I knew that would mean pulled quads and no walking for two weeks. I was okay with being the lazy handler...(but I did get one D on this woman...her mistake, not my redemptive speed.)

Of course, now I really want to be back in top form, back where I was in...maybe...2005. But I'm old and creeky now. I certainly don't have the time to commit to track workouts, stadiums, practice, games and tournaments. And, moreso, I wound up leaving pick-up early last night because 1) I didn't want to overdo it on my first day back, rendering myself unable to move today.

And even moreso 2) because I felt bad being away from O and Z that long. I'd been at the office all day, then saw them for about an hour when they came to the park with me before pick-up started, and then S took them home. While I was simultaneously *tremendously* relieved to be reclaiming a piece of my identity on the field, I was thinking about my family eating dinner and having bathtime and the fact that I wasn't there for it.

I know that playing improves my mental health by orders of magnitude, and everyone in the world would tell me that I can not live solely for my children at the expense of my own mental health. It would be counterproductive anyway. If my mental health (and physical health, for that matter) improves, so does theirs. But that doesn't mean that I can just automatically stop feeling guilty for not being with them.

I believe the concept is called something like...um...balance. So, I continue now on this journey of discovering how to be Becky Z.