Adaptation

I used to love being with my friends on the tennis court, feeling my energy surge as I charged after that yellow ball, the pleasure being more in running fast and hard than in actually connecting with anything. Except, of course, my friends--sometimes literally.
I thought I would really miss that,

But I've gotten used to it.

I remember getting up in the morning, tying on my shoes and heading out for a run, no matter what the weather.
There was a special joy in starting out on a frigid day, feeling my body create its own heat as I ran, breathing in rhythm with my feet hitting the pavement.
Now I rarely sweat and I barely breathe. My feet are quiet as I walk.
I thought I would hate that,

But I've gotten used to it.

Although it never came naturally to me, I used love to dance. If there was music, I was moving.
Dancing--and wine--made me not care what other people think.
How freeing it was to move in (perceived) sync with whatever was playing, untethered by cares and supplemental oxygen devices.
I was sure I would mourn the loss of dancing,

But I've gotten used to it.

I've always believed that when God closes one door, he opens another, but I never imagined that I would be a person who could find happiness in a recliner, a pile of books, a basket yarn and a remote control.
Sometimes I still move--just not with as much gusto as I used to,

But I've gotten used to it.

Besides, I still have friends and family and wine and cheese and crackers, and life is still greatly pleasurable. I could definitely get used to this...