When I was young, I wanted to become a ballerina. I’d practice twirling and bowing in my bedroom for hours.

Never mind I didn’t have a graceful bone in my body. I believed I would one day dance in “Swan Lake.”

Before I had children, I remember watching a child throw a temper tantrum. I was with my grandmother, and I told her my children would never do that. I was going to be a patient, kind and intelligent parent. I wouldn’t rear children who would behave so poorly.

“Don’t spit up in the air,” she said with a smile.

Not only did my children throw temper tantrums in public, they threw fits in our house, friends’ houses and almost everywhere we went.

I thought I’d keep a neat and orderly house at all times.

There are days when making the bed is about the only neat chore I accomplish.

Over the years, all those pre-conceived notions about myself dissolved.

Recently, I’ve had to face another belief about myself.

I thought I had a high threshold for pain.

Turns out, I’m a wimp.

I had knee replacement surgery about three weeks ago. I went into the procedure, telling the doctor I’d be driving the second week. Unlike others who had trouble with pain and recovery, I’d be the one powering through, breezing through physical therapy.

I was smug, confident and convinced I’d sail right through the procedure.

Was I wrong.

Now with every little pang, I want to yell “Medic!”

A twinge in my knee has me on the recliner, the ice machine humming next to me, providing an icy reprieve.

Not bouncing back like I thought I’d do has me accepting some hard truths about myself.

I’ll never be able to pass up a slice of apple pie, especially if there’s a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

Forget learning to like turnips, beets or parsnips. When I see those veggies featured in a recipe, I’ll think they look appetizing.

The truth is, I’m a picky eater.

I’ll never ski down a mountain. To be fair, I couldn’t have done that when I was in my 20s. I dislike the cold and I especially dislike heights. Seeing myself riding in a ski lift hundreds of feet in the air and then skiing down a mountain with no brakes or safety net scares the heck out of me.

I’m much better suited to staying in the ski lodge, drinking hot chocolate and reading a book.

I’ll never learn to parallel park. I understood the concept – line up with an already parked car, turn the wheel and back in.

In all my years of driving, I’ve managed to avoid parallel parking. I tell myself pull-in parking is more available, thanks to living in an area two feet above sea level.

The hard truth – I cannot parallel park.

People say “never say never,” but with all honesty and frankness, there are things I will never do even though I thought some of them were a possibility in my 20s.

These activities include bungee jumping, sky diving, running a marathon, riding a bike down a hill, and driving a motorcycle.

The real truth is – I’m not made of steel.

I’m made of good traits and weak ones. Somehow, I’ll live with the fact I will never run with the bulls in Spain, will never climb Mt. Everest or scuba dive with sharks. I can barely keep up with our elderly dog, I’m out of breath walking up a hill and I don’t go in a body of water unless there’s cement at the bottom.

I’m okay with keeping my feet firmly on the ground and admitting I’m not Superman.

Being Denise, the ungraceful wimp, is okay with me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.