Decades ago, getting in shape and staying there presented no problem. It took weeks to get into shape and months to lose conditioning. Now, teetering on the half-century mark, the reverse is true. I have given up hope of any noticeable change, and look for ways to stem the tide of aging. Gravity continues to work its black magic on me, and I halfheartedly fight it. I wave gently, so that my entire upper arm doesn’t wave with me. I choose clothing carefully.
When a gym opened around the corner from my house, I was delighted. It was inexpensive and close – close enough to walk, if I wanted to actually exercise. I signed up, knowing that I would feel guilty enough about the money I was spending to go regularly.
The gym offered a wide variety of classes. Classes are perfect for people who are social and coordinated, but torture for those of us who are shy and awkward. I didn’t want to say hello to people, and I definitely didn’t want anyone to know that I still haven’t gotten left and right entirely straightened out in my mind. I attended a few Zumba classes, mostly because watching the other participants was fascinating. I could see from the looks on their faces that they imagined themselves somewhere better, fancier, more fun. Not me; the mirror in front of me didn’t let me see anything other a dumpy, awkward participant going the wrong direction.
I abandoned classes and moved to machines. The great thing about leg machines is that I didn’t have to put my book down in order to work out. I did a lot of reading. The downside is that spending hours on leg machines and nothing else left me with a body like a Thanksgiving turkey: giant drumsticks and tiny, wobbly wings.
Over the course of four years the gym closed and reopened under new owners multiple times. I attended every grand opening, signed a contract for another year, swearing that this time would be different. I did a sit-up or two, used the arm machines with no weight on them because I wasn’t strong enough to lift actual weight, stomped my way through treadmill time as the overhead televisions blared political talking heads and telenovelas in Spanish. Each time the gym closed again, I breathed a sigh of relief, but each time it reopened, I ran back to it like a needy girlfriend to a dysfunctional relationship.
This summer, after the most recent disappearance of the gym, I gave up. I began walking instead, with the goal of 10,000 steps per day. Ten thousand steps per day is nothing impressive, but it’s a good round number, and the pedometer app on my phone throws a little confetti shower when I reach that goal. It was more meandering than racewalking, unless I ended up in a bad neighborhood, in which case it became cardio. It was nice to unplug: the pedometer on my phone doesn’t count steps if my phone is in my hand, so I tucked it into my pocket or waistband and for a while there was no Trump, no Twitter, no Instagram photos of people I am convinced have better lives than mine. I didn’t lose any significant weight, but I felt mildly virtuous.
My most recent attempt at fitness involves yoga. Yoga is not an easy activity for a person with the flexibility of a Tyrannosaurus rex and the mind of a caffeinated squirrel. Fortunately, even though it’s a class, no one talks, and the lights are dim, so my awkwardness is mine and mine alone. I still struggle with right and left, inhale when I’m supposed to exhale, and wobble wildly during balance exercises. Instructors intone solemnly, “Find stillness,” and I’m pretty sure my stillness is irretrievably lost. I watch enviously from downward-facing dog as people around me do handstands, but I can now touch my toes on a semi-regular basis and I think I may have seen the hint of an arm muscle recently.
I’ve come to realize I’m not going to dodge aging. Athletic glory will continue to elude me, as will basic coordination. I slide in and out of shape, alternatively seek and avoid strenuous activity, cultivate the same love-hate relationship with my physique that many people my age have. I admire people who are dedicated to exercise in the same way I admire people who can play musical instruments or juggle bowling pins; they’re fabulous but I will never be them. I’ll stick with gratitude that my limbs still work more or less as they’re supposed to, continue trying to touch my toes, lift a weight or two, count my steps, and hopefully stay in a shape that isn’t round.
