Someone asked me the other day what I mean by “Breaking Hip,” the name of this here blog. It had been swirling around in my head for months, but I hadn’t tried to say it out loud before. I gave it a shot. 

Halfway in, I realized the shot needs a rewrite.

Let’s try that again, shall we? Breaking Hip is what happens when life reminds me, in its subtle or not-so-subtle way, that I’m not exactly twenty anymore. Maybe it’s the way getting out of my recliner is now best of three series. Or the fact that I try to time putting on my jacket when I know my wife is around to help with that elusive second arm hole that must be after a bounty on my shoulder. But breaking hip is not just about the physical stuff of aging—it’s also about breaking out of that quiet resignation that’s been sneaking up on me ever since these symptoms started popping up. I put large chunks of life on hold while I was waiting for the symptoms to do their job and get cured.

Symptoms weren’t interested. Most of them packed like they weren’t staying around for just the weekend. They were getting comfy, checking the dinner menu, wondering what’s on tonight, and arguing over who got the bottom bunk. They were settling in for the long haul.

I’m on year three of this wrestle with this particular batch of symptoms. There came a time when I realized the things I always meant to do—write that book, finish that play, take up knitting, do more kind things, read a book (sp?) with paper pages—may not postpone their deadline for me (this must be how deadlines got their name). They could slip through my fingers if I’m not mindful. Moreover, my 80-something mom assures me that the 60s are the youth of old age. What if this really is as good as it gets? That went off like an age grenade landing in my lap. My first instinct was to duck and plug my ears. 

Hold On, Time Out, Take a Breather

This is where Breaking Hip came in for me. Breaking Hip is about grabbing that grenade, holding it up to the sky, and saying, “Not today, buddy,” then chucking it back. Maybe that book or play won’t be perfect. It might not even be good. But it’ll be mine, and maybe that’s something worth swinging for. 

The essence of Breaking Hip is in the trying, the striving, the glorious mess of it all. It’s the late-night scribbling, the notes that don’t make sense in the morning, the mistake-filled version of Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me on the piano (even though I used to nail it). It’s the quiet triumph of standing up to our own doubts and saying, “I’m still here, and I’ve still got something to say.” Take that, creaky hip.

So, here’s to all of those who refuse to go gentle into that good night—not out of rebellion, but out of sheer stubborn joy. We may ache, and we may groan, but by golly, we’re going to keep at it. Because life, for all its twists and turns, is too short not to try.

And who knows? Maybe in the process, we’ll prove that it’s never too late to break  expectations—or, as I like to call it, Breaking Hip.

Love,

Eugene

P.S. No, that’s not me in the picture, but something to shoot for. Goals.