I’m 60. I wasn’t always 60. For example, I was 40 about 20 years ago. I was also raising four children. A lot has changed. Back then, exercise was easier. I needed a break, so I went for a run. Or I went to TRX class with other people with the same health goals.
But now, I don’t seem to gravitate toward exercise when I need a break. Maybe it’s because there are no kids to escape from; my husband’s at work all day; I’m freelance writing in my home office; a border collie keeps me company, and a cat sleeps nearby, giving me something peaceful to gaze at when the words don’t show. In other words, my work-life balance is pretty good. Almost too good.
The issue is that nothing compels me to go to my workout/yoga room. Consistently, that is. And no, for all of you self-motivated types, the sound of my own voice doesn’t do it for me. I manage to stretch most days of the week, but I only linger around my exercise equipment for as long as it takes. My stretching includes yoga, which means some balance and body-weight exercise, but that’s about it. Luckily, over time, this has kept me in decent shape. But the Hill of Aging seems to be getting steeper by the day.
And so, at 60, exercise is something I must do. It’s a chore. I want to bestrong and fit, so I have to exercise. I want joints that don’t hurt, muscles that can lift me off the ground and let me walk and ride my bike, and bones that don’t break, so I have to do yoga and lift weights. That’s my mindset. I’m sure it’s a bad one, the way I’ve arranged all those ideas and words, but so be it. The point is, I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not.
I’m here to share that I finally gave up the fantasy that I should be someone who can float in and out of exercise each day, or the three days a week she has written on her chalkboard hanging in the hallway, who wouldn’t dream of missing a workout.
It simply is not me. Don’t get me wrong; I like the way I feel after I stretch and do TRX and yoga, all in my little dedicated loft a mere 10 feet from my home office; I love the little mental zing of “I worked out today!” that follows me around like a personal ray of sunshine, bolstering my aging self-esteem up to the minute I hit the pillow and put my freshly exercised body to rest for the night.
But there are a few things that I can’t do regularly without being told to—by someone else other than myself. For example, if I didn’t have hard deadlines with clients on the other side waiting for the content, I’d be in trouble. Exercise is the other one.
I give up. In fact, I gave up! Today! I paid for a monthly membership for a group class at a local personal training place in my little town, one I went to 20 years ago when it merely qualified as an e s c a p e. I showed up at 8:30 a.m., and I admit, I got a little panicky when the trainer demonstrated the circuit we were about to do. And that’s because the trifecta of listening, remembering, and doing isn’t at the top of the list of “Strengths I Possess at 60.”
At the end of this morning’s 30-minute power half-hour, I was sweating, my muscles felt activated, and I had successfully switched between tasks without feeling foolish. Most of the credit goes to the trainer leading the class. She spoke fluent Menopause. In other words, slowly and repeatedly.
As I lay on the mat doing my cool down stretch, a visceral feeling of relief washed over me: I don’t have to go to bed tonight wondering if I’m going to go back on my promise to myself tomorrow to get on the mat at home; I don’t have to wake up tomorrow and psych myself up or wonder if I’m going to let myself down again. And I don’t have to keep brushing off the feeling of letting myself down, again and again.
I can stop scrolling and saving reels about the “best hip flexor move” or the “only three moves for a stronger core” that I rarely go back to. I can stop crawling along the path of resistance, wishing and hoping it were less so.
Instead, I can pay a little money, which, based on history, ensures I will never miss a class. Problem solved. I will exercise regularly and stay fit. I will throw in one little over-the-door TRX and yoga sesh at home on the weekends because it won’t feel like a “why bother”; it will feel like “Fuck yeah, that’s three for the week!”
I have friends who exercise every single day like it’s their job. They think I’m nuts. And until today, I thought I was nuts too, or needed fixing or adjusting or hypnosis or more discipline. I don’t need any of that. I need to pay someone. It’s transactional for me, and I’m OK with that.
Why is the money the thing? I don’t know, and I don’t care. What I do know is that I got up, went to class, came home, and wrote.
I’m free.
Leave a Reply