My palms are sweaty. My heart is pounding. My knees are shaking. I know I’m going to fall. I just know it. I’m just anticipating how hard the impact is going to be. I look down the ramp and it looks really high up. I’m contemplating just backing down. Then I hear my son screaming, “Just do it daddy!”
“Nathan, slow down! I can’t keep up with you.” Panting and profusely sweating, I tell my 6-year-old son to wait for me as we hike up the canyons. My legs are burning and I’m in immense pain as we descend from the hike. But I act tough so my son won’t think his dad’s a total loser. I think to myself, what is wrong with my body? I was a star athlete in my adolescent years playing handball, kickball, dodge ball and even a one-time limbo champ. Now I could barely do a 2-3 mile hike without having to take a couple Advil’s and incessantly complaining to my wife about how much pain I’m in. Wives can be so unsympathetic to men’s physical pain since supposedly nothing compares to the pain of bearing a child.
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