We’re heading out to camp, again — our last long trip for the summer. The location is the state park closest to us; it isn’t a long trip, and it’s a great state park. A bit on the small side, which is absolutely okay by me. We’ll be camping lakefront, with our camper bedroom nearly on the water; I’m looking forward to some cool breezes, fishing, and maybe a night or two with the camper windows open, since we’re expecting some cooler evenings before we return home.

Just by some nice coincidence, the local news station’s evening travel segment focused on the same state park. There’s a small waterfall at this state park, and that’s what they featured in the segment; the hike back to it through the woods. There was a time in the not-so-distant past that I would have watched, knowing that I’d be risking my health if I tried to take even a short hike on, certain that the total discomfort and embarrassment I’d feel would be so overwhelming that I would just opt not to go.

Last night, as I watched, instead of lamenting that hiking, which I loved to do in my younger years, was permanently behind me — that thought never entered my mind. Instead, I thought it wouldn’t be a bad hike at all, especially if we pick a cooler day. (Hey, I may be far more mobile these days, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy sweating!) Maybe a small backpack, big enough for a couple of bottles of water — hey, what? It hit me like a rock when I considered it this morning; those old you can’t do that thoughts never entered my mind. Instead, it made me want to plan on the hike. My only reservation (other than the inconvenience of sweating) is that the trails don’t allow dogs and we’ll have our dog with us, so we will need to plan for her.

I have spent an awful lot of time, as an obese adult, yearning for the things that once brought me joy, knowing for certain they were lost to me. We all relive glory days, to a certain extent, wistfully yearning for those times when we were young and free to do things we took for granted.

As I continue into this second young adulthood (of sorts), I’m getting a second wind for doing those things I previously loved so much.

Make music again? Check! Orchestra rehearsals start in just over a month, again, and I’m looking forward to my Sunday afternoon moments of making music with friends.

Dance all night? Check! Who’d’a’figured this old broad would dance the night away on a Caribbean cruise? I’m looking forward to the next!

Hike, just to see what’s there? Check! We’ve already done a bit of hiking, just to explore what was nearby, and I no longer worry about calculating the distance or worrying about whether there’s a place to sit down, or if I’ll get out a long distance and either feel sick, slow down my walking partner, or deal with severe joint pain.

I used to stop myself from these things because I knew I had hard limits; many physical, and frankly, some mental. I used to calculate whether I could do a task, go to a place, eat at a crowded restaurant and not feel claustrophobic because the tables were too close together for a morbidly obese woman to get to without a great deal of trouble. Or request that a hostess not seat us at tables/bars with barstools, because I couldn’t get on them. I spent more time worrying than I did actually doing.

I spent so much time and energy, having to plan around limitations, that I often felt defeated before even trying. Now, my planning is of an entirely different sort: I look forward, I make these things possible, I spend that energy creating solutions instead of feeling distinctly restrained. I take the chances.

I used to think of glory days as those that were behind us and lost to us — and maybe that’s not true at all. What stops us from making now our glory days?