My Pants Are Falling, and So Might I

There are certain ages and stages in life—we all know this. You hit your twenties and discover you’re not invincible. You hit your forties and realize stretching is no longer optional. And then, somewhere past the halfway mark, your body starts acting like it’s on a countdown timer set by a vengeful Pilates instructor.

I understand the natural progression of things. What I don’t understand is how your fitness level can vanish faster than socks in a dryer. I mostly sat for a little over a month due to that rebellious toe knuckle that decided to explode (implode?) and now my muscles, particularly my quads, have taken early retirement. They’re so useless I think they’re outsourcing tasks to my elbows.

They’re the unsung heroes of not falling over—your quads. They keep you upright, balanced, and capable of standing up without those ridiculous grunting sounds. So, I’ve launched a modest strength-building routine. Nothing flashy—just some half squats, leg lifts, and the occasional side-eye at a resistance band that seems a little too smug for its own good. It’s less “Ironman training montage,” more “prevent-the-tumble-in-the-shower” sequel. It’s because I know falls are the beginning of the slow downhill slide for older people—no joke there.

Am I stronger yet? Who knows. What I do know is my pants refuse to stay up. The scale shows a modest—even minor—weight loss, but my clothes don’t fit my body anymore. Or maybe I should say my body doesn’t fit my clothes anymore. In any case, gravity is having a field day. At this point, my workout consists of 10% squats and 90% chasing my waistband like it’s trying to escape to a better life. I think it’s a good thing?

Progress? Maybe. Comedy? Definitely.