I can’t squat.

At least not well.

I can do the perpendicular to the floor, parallel to your knees thing.  But not the almost to the floor, heels on your bum thing.

And, for me, it’s not just a gym issue.

It’s a life issue.

If you dance to “Louie Louie” at your niece’s wedding, you have to gravitate down to a squat when all the relatives dance in a circle.  I can no longer do that.  I’m left standing.

You can’t get down with your twin grandchildren when they are digging in the sand at the beach.  Put the turret on the castle.  You just can’t.

Leapfrog is out.

You can’t plant potatoes. Get your hands dirty. Lovingly fold them into the ground with a true gardener’s touch.

If you see a cluster of ants moving small chips of seedpods into a nest, you can’t squat down to study their patterns. Their earnest way of transporting goods.

If you drop your gluten free cracker off of the counter, you have to find a chair to perch on while you lean over to pick it up. A squat would be so much easier.

But most important are the implications of not being able to squat.  Something you always could do is now something you can’t do.  You constantly are reminded that your body is not responding the way it did when you were younger.

When the dog takes a turkey leg under the bed, you have to convince your still squatting husband to get him out.

And that’s irritating.

Not being able to squat feels like yet another of life’s little denials.

How low can you go?