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needtogetaas
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SO I’m at the gym — myself and about 40 other Lycra-clad hopefuls determined to start the year right. I’ve never seen such a crowd.
Buoyed by the group spirit, I make my vows: This year I will exercise every day! By spring I will be healthy and balanced and look like Angelina Jolie (the latter is merely a bonus; it’s the well-being I’m after, of course). But perhaps that’s a bit ambitious. So I will work out four days a week and settle for a Zen-like calm and J. Lo’s body by September. O.K., fine. One day a week, slight smile, and a Marie Osmond, post-Jenny, by 2010. I may be a dreamer but I’m not delusional.
Just making it here with my motivation sapped by 12 days of Christmakah vacation (think chocolate, tequila and deep-fried potatoes, sometimes together) surely qualifies me for some sort of bonus. At the very least, my calories should burn double today.
Toward that end, I step on the only open machine, which generously asks if I want Cardio Workout, Strength Build or Weight Loss.
“Yes!”
If only I’d been more consistent about coming to the gym, perhaps I’d know which choice is the absolute best. But evolving into the New Middle-Aged Woman is not just exhausting, it’s confusing. Now that I’ve finished navigating the supermom years, what are the mandates for the next stage? Is 40 the new 30, or is that antifeminist and destructive? Do I grow old gracefully or not go gently into that good night?
Those choices became painfully clear the last time I returned to the gym after my typical hiatus. (I was injured, busy, bloated ... the dog ate my membership card.) It was spring. All around me were gung-ho gym people, and I wanted to be one, too. Unfortunately I was less gung-ho and more ho-hum. I reminded myself that this was precious me time, but the truth is, my idea of me time involves less forward roll and more cinnamon roll, preferably while curling up with a good book instead of a five-pound weight. I turned to the overhead TVs for a distraction.
On the first screen, ESPN showed an endless reel of basketball players flying through the air and dunking the ball; I was less than riveted. On the next screen, Fox News was tracking the economy — not exactly the lift I was looking for. Finally, to my extreme right, was VH1. And although I had to crane my neck to watch the decline of that poor, cute guy from “Taxi” as he went through a celebrity rehab, it was worth it. He was as old as I was and in much worse shape. I found this disturbingly motivating.
Finally, I remembered the iPod that my children had generously programmed with songs they thought I would like. I put the headset on and pressed play. Immediately I was assaulted by an angry rapper shouting that he was going to teach my “bad self” a lesson. (Didn’t he mean my ho-hum self?) Embarrassed, I fast-forwarded — Ice/Jay/Zap/Fiddy — this was my teenage son’s idea of a huge joke. When “Manic Monday” came on, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I also had a daughter. My calm was short-lived.
I was beginning to feel the rush of endorphins (yeah, right) when she got on the machine next to me. Let’s call her Jasmine. Or Sage. Because at my gym, if you’re not named after a spice they’re reluctant to let you in. Possibly I exaggerate. It took Jasmine about five minutes to set up all her stuff; two towels, water, iPod and headphones, which became tangled and dropped, taking my towel with them, to the floor. As she retrieved the lot she accidentally stepped on my towel. All I could think of were the icky sweat droppings of previous exercisers on my towel. There was a time when I didn’t worry about things like that, when I rebounded from a stomach bug in the 24 hours they said one should, but that time is long gone.
Finally, just as Jas seemed ready to work out, her cellphone rang. While simultaneously entering her weight and time, waving to at least four friends, and adjusting her headphones, she held the phone to her ear and began a conversation that did not begin with “Sorry, I’ll have to call you back,” but instead: “Oh hi. How are you? No, I can talk.”
And talk she did, loudly, endlessly, annoyingly. I tried to be sympathetic. Certainly it was barbaric that the children had to eat lunch at 10:45 a.m. and that the soccer coach picked olive green uniforms. But I was having “me time.” And just because I’m past T-ball and story time doesn’t mean my life isn’t complicated, too. I’ve been busy grinding my own flaxseed and constructing dinners infused with Omega-3s. My next vacation may not involve a kiddie club or a life-size mouse, but there will be the building of dwellings for the Yanomamo tribe in a remote Amazonian village (well, I have the brochure).
I decided to ask Jas to keep it down. But then I thought twice. Did I really want to be the woman at the gym who told another woman what to do? Did the fact that she was younger and skinnier have something to do with my ire? Well, forgive me if I wasn’t at my most self-assured in Spandex. Luckily Jas got off the phone and I was spared a confrontation I didn’t want, at least on the outside.
Today, as I tackle the New Year and its new wrinkles (both literal and figurative), I see that spring day through a clearer lens. When I get annoyed with young mothers, it’s because they remind me of all that has changed. No more stressing over the manipulative soccer coach or my daughter’s scruffy boyfriend. No more midnight trips to the CVS to get emergency poster board for the project that was assigned two months ago. No more crying behind dark sunglasses as we drop a freshman off at the dorm. My husband and I have a new agenda: Thanksgiving in the mountains (or on the lake) with a group the size of a small republic; summers of long drives, antiquing and dining in country restaurants. No early bird specials yet, but things are slipping out of something into something else. I’ll just have to go with it.
And while I may not know the name of the machine I’m on, or how to best use it, I can still read the calorie count of 400 (800 today!). Couple that with 52 minutes of self-actualization and it’s not a bad start. I may even be finding myself at the gym more often this year.
Buoyed by the group spirit, I make my vows: This year I will exercise every day! By spring I will be healthy and balanced and look like Angelina Jolie (the latter is merely a bonus; it’s the well-being I’m after, of course). But perhaps that’s a bit ambitious. So I will work out four days a week and settle for a Zen-like calm and J. Lo’s body by September. O.K., fine. One day a week, slight smile, and a Marie Osmond, post-Jenny, by 2010. I may be a dreamer but I’m not delusional.
Just making it here with my motivation sapped by 12 days of Christmakah vacation (think chocolate, tequila and deep-fried potatoes, sometimes together) surely qualifies me for some sort of bonus. At the very least, my calories should burn double today.
Toward that end, I step on the only open machine, which generously asks if I want Cardio Workout, Strength Build or Weight Loss.
“Yes!”
If only I’d been more consistent about coming to the gym, perhaps I’d know which choice is the absolute best. But evolving into the New Middle-Aged Woman is not just exhausting, it’s confusing. Now that I’ve finished navigating the supermom years, what are the mandates for the next stage? Is 40 the new 30, or is that antifeminist and destructive? Do I grow old gracefully or not go gently into that good night?
Those choices became painfully clear the last time I returned to the gym after my typical hiatus. (I was injured, busy, bloated ... the dog ate my membership card.) It was spring. All around me were gung-ho gym people, and I wanted to be one, too. Unfortunately I was less gung-ho and more ho-hum. I reminded myself that this was precious me time, but the truth is, my idea of me time involves less forward roll and more cinnamon roll, preferably while curling up with a good book instead of a five-pound weight. I turned to the overhead TVs for a distraction.
On the first screen, ESPN showed an endless reel of basketball players flying through the air and dunking the ball; I was less than riveted. On the next screen, Fox News was tracking the economy — not exactly the lift I was looking for. Finally, to my extreme right, was VH1. And although I had to crane my neck to watch the decline of that poor, cute guy from “Taxi” as he went through a celebrity rehab, it was worth it. He was as old as I was and in much worse shape. I found this disturbingly motivating.
Finally, I remembered the iPod that my children had generously programmed with songs they thought I would like. I put the headset on and pressed play. Immediately I was assaulted by an angry rapper shouting that he was going to teach my “bad self” a lesson. (Didn’t he mean my ho-hum self?) Embarrassed, I fast-forwarded — Ice/Jay/Zap/Fiddy — this was my teenage son’s idea of a huge joke. When “Manic Monday” came on, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I also had a daughter. My calm was short-lived.
I was beginning to feel the rush of endorphins (yeah, right) when she got on the machine next to me. Let’s call her Jasmine. Or Sage. Because at my gym, if you’re not named after a spice they’re reluctant to let you in. Possibly I exaggerate. It took Jasmine about five minutes to set up all her stuff; two towels, water, iPod and headphones, which became tangled and dropped, taking my towel with them, to the floor. As she retrieved the lot she accidentally stepped on my towel. All I could think of were the icky sweat droppings of previous exercisers on my towel. There was a time when I didn’t worry about things like that, when I rebounded from a stomach bug in the 24 hours they said one should, but that time is long gone.
Finally, just as Jas seemed ready to work out, her cellphone rang. While simultaneously entering her weight and time, waving to at least four friends, and adjusting her headphones, she held the phone to her ear and began a conversation that did not begin with “Sorry, I’ll have to call you back,” but instead: “Oh hi. How are you? No, I can talk.”
And talk she did, loudly, endlessly, annoyingly. I tried to be sympathetic. Certainly it was barbaric that the children had to eat lunch at 10:45 a.m. and that the soccer coach picked olive green uniforms. But I was having “me time.” And just because I’m past T-ball and story time doesn’t mean my life isn’t complicated, too. I’ve been busy grinding my own flaxseed and constructing dinners infused with Omega-3s. My next vacation may not involve a kiddie club or a life-size mouse, but there will be the building of dwellings for the Yanomamo tribe in a remote Amazonian village (well, I have the brochure).
I decided to ask Jas to keep it down. But then I thought twice. Did I really want to be the woman at the gym who told another woman what to do? Did the fact that she was younger and skinnier have something to do with my ire? Well, forgive me if I wasn’t at my most self-assured in Spandex. Luckily Jas got off the phone and I was spared a confrontation I didn’t want, at least on the outside.
Today, as I tackle the New Year and its new wrinkles (both literal and figurative), I see that spring day through a clearer lens. When I get annoyed with young mothers, it’s because they remind me of all that has changed. No more stressing over the manipulative soccer coach or my daughter’s scruffy boyfriend. No more midnight trips to the CVS to get emergency poster board for the project that was assigned two months ago. No more crying behind dark sunglasses as we drop a freshman off at the dorm. My husband and I have a new agenda: Thanksgiving in the mountains (or on the lake) with a group the size of a small republic; summers of long drives, antiquing and dining in country restaurants. No early bird specials yet, but things are slipping out of something into something else. I’ll just have to go with it.
And while I may not know the name of the machine I’m on, or how to best use it, I can still read the calorie count of 400 (800 today!). Couple that with 52 minutes of self-actualization and it’s not a bad start. I may even be finding myself at the gym more often this year.
