Whatercise

Recently, a friend talked me into taking a yoga class. I have a sister who goes to yoga every other day, and when we speak on the phone, at least once in the conversation, I get a sales pitch on how good yoga is for you. I get it-YOGA IS GOOD. So, my friend and I went. We put on our faded sweat suits and our grass stained sneakers and walked into the darkened room with soft melodic Indian music and chimes tinkling intermittently playing in the background. The walls were draped with brightly colored silk cloth and the incense that was burning on a small bamboo table at the back of the room reminded me of a smell reminiscent of college days.

“Okay, everybody, grab your mats and find a spot.”

Grab your mats. The confusion sets in. Luckily, there was a wonderfully helpful young woman who came to our rescue.

“If you don’t have a mat, they have some over in the corner for you to borrow.”

Great. We grab a couple, knowing full well that someone at sometime or other has probably sweat or drooled on said mat, and make our way to the back of the mirrored room. All the other participants are in these cute little t-back fitted tops with stretchy black yoga Capri’s. One woman is actually stretching by putting her foot behind her head.

Is this yoga or tryouts for the circus?

“You two in the back,” the instructor points in our direction. “Come up front. I like to keep my newbie’s where I can see them. It’ll help with getting the poses right.”

Poses? I’m perplexed, I’m not some model in a shoot for a magazine. I’m here to stretch and sweat.

So we move up front, not happy about the attention, and the slow rhythmic music begins to play. It’s obvious the members of this group have been at this for awhile and I can’t help but feel we are somehow holding them back as the instructor time and again makes his way over to pose us in the “correct” position.

“No, turn your foot out, like this. No, out.”

My friend, who has had knee surgery due to a skiing accident, informed the guy that her leg just doesn’t turn that way anymore. He sighs as he goes back to the front of the class.

“Okay, let’s try lying down on our backs and follow my direction.”

As I’m lying there my back starts to cramp up. I have always had back problems since I carried about a hundred extra pounds with my second child twenty-eight years ago. So, I’m lying there, on the ground and the cramp gets tighter and tighter. I roll to my side and sit up, stretching to reach the hard knot that’s forming in the lower part of my back threatening to make the journey north. I knead the knot while watching the others move through the rest of the floor exercises without hesitation. Even my friend is into this part of the workout. Finally the cool down. I can do this. Stretch, breath, stretch, breath. Yeah, finally I am one with the group. But then it’s over.

“You did really well for the first time,” the young woman that helped us out earlier with the mats says. I’m assuming she’s the plant in class to make the newbie’s feel welcome and keep them coming back.

“Thanks,” we offer. By now sweat is pouring down my strange shade of crimson face. My mascara has melted and formed a dark smudge that seems to have pooled under my eye. I notice that the other women in class appear as clean and fresh as they were before the session started, looking as if they are ready for a night on the town.

We’ve signed up for six sessions so we’ll be back. It did get easier, but it just wasn’t for me.

SO---- I decided to take a Pilates class. I loved it. It was all about core. Work your core. First, I had to find my core. The instructor also seemed to have problems finding my core. But we kept at it. I signed up for six weeks and it did make a difference. I had definition in my arms for the first time in like forever, but the cost was high. It ended up being almost sixty dollars per session and I just couldn’t get past the cost being more than I spent on groceries each week.

Aerobics. I took the class and when the twelve year old that was teaching it yelled, “Today, we’re working out to music from the eighties,” and no one in the class knew any of the songs, I moved on.

On to water aerobics. The club I belong to has water aerobics every day, nine to ten fifteen. The instructors are wonderful and I seem to be able to keep up with the over seventy crowd. Although there are two that kick my ass on the reverse run (where you run in one direction around the pool and then run back against the current, hey, it’s harder than it sounds). The instructors are wonderful, making me do twice as many reps as the older ladies so I get a little harder workout. They play songs I know and love. And, afterward, I can swim some extra laps for my core. That’s right, I found it. And you know what, its right where it’s supposed to be.

That’s Not My Luggage That's My Makeup Bag

Recently my husband and I went on a trip with another couple. We had the car packed and my husband was commenting on the amount of luggage I’d brought along. “Really, Wendy, is all this necessary?”

“Well,” I started, “I need clothes to stay in, clothes to go out, it’s a weird time of year so I need warm and cool clothes. I need workout clothes (that I really intend to use this time) and swimwear for the indoor pool. I need black shoes, brown shoes, tennis shoes, my black boots and brown boots (I live in Florida when else will I wear them?), water shoes for Kayaking and fuzzy slippers for inside the house at night. I need pj’s and since we are traveling with others a robe because I don’t get dressed until after my morning coffee (we’ll get to the strange way I do everything in order each day later). I need two jackets; one to go with brown and one to go with black outfits. I need my seven different color shawls because I get cold and need to wrap up but never know which color I’ll need.”

“Okay,” he says, “I get you need all the clothing, but what’s in this bag?” He holds up a rather large duffle. I take a deep breath and start. “That is my makeup bag.” “Nobody needs this much make up.” “Really? Let’s see.” I pull out the contents. “This is my blow dryer because my hair is so thick I need a 3500 watt. Most places only have 1500 so unless you want to wait an hour and a half for my hair to dry this stays. Next is my straightener. I have naturally curly hair and if I don’t straighten it I’ll resemble Bozo the clown on a good day. And don’t forget I need both my hair brushes, the big on for the top of my hair and the small one to curl the ends.” I continue to lay out the rest, “This is my shampoo, conditioner, hair glaze and hair smoother, all necessary to complete the illusion that I just run a comb through my hair and go.”

“Okay,” my loving husband sighs, now sorry that he brought up the subject. “This bag contains my actual makeup. Day make up and evening because the lighting is different and therefore the makeup is different.” I need to note that this is the smallest bag in the duffle as I really don’t use a lot of makeup. Somehow having it just makes me feel better, you know, in case of an emergency.

“And this bag,” I hold up a plastic zip lock bag, “is medication. My must haves, my daily regime, Lipitor, Calcium, Fish Oil, Multi Vitamins and Advil. Then there are the may needs Tums, pepcid, Benadryl, and the ever necessary item to cure that travel problem many of us get, a laxative. Then the necessaries: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash and last, baby powder and deodorant along with a few of my tanning towels.”

“I get it, okay...can we go?” “Not so fast, Mister. I also have my soap that I use because some soap dries out my skin and I need my moisturizer to put on each night to keep my tender facial skin hydrated.” “Are you done?” he asks, obviously tired of playing this game. I look in the bag, “Yep that’s it. Oh except the towel.” “Alright, put it all away. I get it. I won’t say anything again.” “Thanks, hon,” I say rubbing his face gently with my hand. “That’s why you’re such a good husband."

Change will do you good...or not.

My husband recently celebrated his twenty year anniversary at work. Before that he worked for a public accounting firm for thirteen years. I bring this up because our generation is known for staying put. Not me, but that’s because I went back to work at various times throughout the years to help financially when needed. My husband and I decided when we had a family that we’d do without in order for me to stay home. So, I took jobs while the kids were in school, selling unfinished furniture, managing a Wendy’s, working the desk at a health club and, well, the list is just too long. But it seems our children's generation is constantly moving from job to job.

Phone rings. “I’m thinking about taking my life in a different direction.” “Yeah,” I answer. I have to think, does the person want me to:
a. Really discuss this issue honestly and tell them my true feelings on the subject.
b. Sit and listen in silence as they bounce the ideas off me, adding only the occasional uh-huh, yeah, I see…or
c. Be the cheerleader… Agree to anything they say because they’re mind is already made up and they just called for confirmation that their decision is the right one. Sometimes it’s exhausting just trying to decipher what they need. “Yeah, I’m kind of tired of all the bullshit at work so I’m thinking about going back to school.” “Um sounds good.” Still unsure about which route to take I hang back to assure myself I’m following the right script.

“What do you think?”

“What do I really think?”

“Yeah, of course, why else do you think I called?”

I dive in head first, “Do you know what you want to do?” “Maybe education, I like teaching kids to do stuff.” “There’s a lot more to teaching. I mean you need to be committed to being with kid’s day in and day out. And it’s not like the old days. Now there’s so much paper work and don’t get me started on the whole teaching to the test stuff.” “So you think I shouldn’t be a teacher?” “That’s not what I said. Maybe you should talk to your cousin Frank. He’s a teacher. He might be able to help you out.” “But you sound like you don’t think it’s a good idea.” Time to change tactics…. “Um, I don’t know, what do you think?” “I think it might be fun, to make a difference.” “Yeah, I see your point.” “Good, well I’m going over to the college to see what I need to do to get my teaching credentials.” “Sounds good. You know honey; you can do anything you put your mind to.” “Yeah, thanks for the talk.”

Two weeks later after I’ve worried about the costs of the kid going back to school, if they would be happy in the teaching profession, discussing it with my husband, my friends and my mother, I carefully broach the subject. “So how did the meeting with the college go?” “What meeting?” A look of confusion crosses their face. “About going back to school to get your teaching certificate?” “What?” “You called,” I start. “Oh that. That was just an idea I had. I changed my mind. I’m still thinking about changing jobs, but I don’t want to do anything until I’m sure.” “Sure about what?” “About what to do.” B. uh huh… C. you can do anything… usually they really, and I mean really don’t want A

.

Where Did You Come From (Or it’s all a matter of perception)

Last year my husband had a reunion of sorts. We were in Ohio for a family gathering and we got together with a group of accountants he’d started out with thirty years ago. And although I went to every softball game, basketball game, and social gathering back then, I was busy having babies. I was tired and possibly not the most receptive to the single men and women and the bar scene they frequented after every game. But I tried. It wasn’t that I didn’t fit in, but these were all professionals and while they were talking about who was making partner, I was just happy I wasn’t leaking breast milk. Imagine my surprise when two of the women began reminiscing with me about the great parties back in the good old days. Maybe they didn’t realize that I wasn’t really a big part of the party scene, or maybe they were just including me in the conversation to be nice. But one of them said something that made me smile. She was talking about the people that had moved on and not made it back for the get together. Many in that profession are moved to other states or even countries when they are promoted.

So this woman says, “God, do you remember that one wife that was always hauling those two kids with her? I remember thinking how horrible it must be to have to drag kids everywhere.”

The other woman took over. “Yeah, I was here when she was pregnant. We were all in our softball uniforms and there she was out to here.” She motioned with her hand and if I had been that big I would have weighed over two hundred pounds. Wait. When I was pregnant, I did.

Here was my dilemma. Do I nod my head? Be the nice one and let on like I’m remembering the same thing? Or do I call them on it? Let them know that back then I was taking care of two babies while my husband was working 800 hours overtime for the good of the company. Trying my best to put on makeup and make it to the game and share in his down time from a high pressure job. Sometimes I would cry on the way to the game because it was just so hard to get two kids and myself ready while trying to look good. Then, standing there next to these petite, professional, single women who had no cares in the world but to be cute and clever, I would question my self-worth. These women spent long days with my husband before he came home to a tired, crazy, emotional female.

So I stood there, listening to them describe the young me and for a moment the feelings I had back then came flowing over me.

“What was her name?” One of the women said.

“It was me,” I said, a note of pride in my voice.

“No, it couldn’t have been you.”

“I’m pretty sure; I was the only one in the group with kids. And I was out to here.” I exaggerated the berth. “Do you have kids?” I asked trying to turn the conversation.

“Yeah, two teenage boys,” the first woman answered.

“How nice,” I said. “Mine are in their late twenties, out on their own and doing wonderfully. We’re very proud, and just think you were there when they were babies. Amazing.”

My husband walked up and put his arm around my waist. “What are you three talking about?”

“The good old days,” I smiled, realizing that was just what they were. Because whenever my wonderful husband wasn’t in the field he would run over and lift our son onto his shoulders, or carry our baby daughter around to show her off to all his coworkers. He’d sit next to me on the blanket and talk and laugh with me and the kids while the others were drinking beer and partying. Then, when they all went to the bar, we would drive to the Dairy Queen and splurge on a banana split, his side chocolate fudge, my side strawberry, with marshmallow dividing the two.

I wish I could have thanked those women for reminding me that for all my insecurities about them back then, I wouldn’t have changed my life for theirs for one moment.

Doctor Doctor

Speaking of my dermatologist, I have to admit that I now tend to take better care of myself medically. Again it’s probably because I have the time, but it is nice to have someone compliment you on your good health.

“You’re heart is really strong. But let’s get you on Lipitor for that high cholesterol. Everything else looks great. As long as you get your yearly pap and mammogram, I don’t think we need to do this for another couple years.” Another new medical thing to learn, LDL’s, HDL’s and cholesterol, or as I call them the good, the bad and the ugly. I still don’t quite understand it all, but that’s why I have a Doctor.

They say “You’re numbers are bad. Take these.”

And I go, “okay, how long?”

And they say, “Forever.”

Forever is a freaking long time. But I trust my doctor so every morning I take my little pill and they tell me the numbers are better.

First let me say that my new Doctor is like ten years old. My real Doctor, the one that saw me through the stressful years, decided retiring to Hawaii last year was a good idea. He and his significant other have decided to open a more holistic practice. Good for whom I asked? You’re leaving me just when my body will need you most?

But my new Doctor is third generation. She even practices with her father and brother. She sits and listens and more times than not I feel better when I leave her office.

I think the last few years the medical industry put so much emphasis on early detection that we baby boomers took the idea to heart. A friend of mine, I’ll call her Gloria, who has REALLY good health coverage, recently did a series of tests to see if she was predisposed for certain illnesses. Breast cancer runs in her family and she wanted a heads up on her chances of getting the disease. It came back inconclusive. We met for dinner and the girls had a long discussion on whether it’s better to know ahead of time or just get your annual checkups and hope you catch it in time. Gloria, who I’ve always felt had a strange sense of humor ordered a bottle of wine for the table.

“It’s okay,” she smiled, “I read where red wine is good for you, all those wonderful antioxidants and resveritrol.”

“This is one of those studies I can get behind,” another friend smiled and tipped the glass in a toast to the table.

“You may need to be careful though,” Gloria said. “I hear the studies inconclusive.”

Yeah. I liked the story the first hundred times you told it!!

The one problem with surrounding yourself with the same friends for years is that you have heard all of their stories and they have heard all of yours. When we get together with the family for reunions or holidays the same stories were heard over and over again. “Remember when Wendy was jumping around in that box and fell into the bush out back? She had to have eight stitches. Doc Stratton stitched her up at his office downtown. His office had that crazy sailfish on the wall...the one that had the eye that followed you wherever you sat?”Another relative would chime in. “Then there was the time she and her friend Cathy snuck out of the house to go to a party. What were they, thirteen? Boy, she was grounded for a year!”

These stories not only get told over and over, but they often take on a new and better twist. “Daddy had to rush her to Doc’s because she was bleeding like crazy. What was it, thirty stitches?”You come to expect the stories from family. They saw you through all of the strange boys you dated, like the one that would run up and down the street in front of your house for over an hour, but never come in. Or the one your sister dated that would never come up to the house. The horn of the car would blow and she’d be gone. We still tease her about that..was there ever really was a guy?

Your family has seen you through the clothes of the sixties; the miniskirts, large bell-bottoms and gauze. The seventies with the halters, silk shirts and maxi dresses and those platform shoes. Then the eighties... well, I spent most of the early eighties in Maternity wear. But even that isn’t sacred. “Do you remember how huge you got with the second baby? I mean HUGE.” I HAVE to listen with family. It’s what we do. We sit around the kitchen table eating Massey’s and reminiscing. The memories and stories are who we are.But with friends we know we can look at each other and smile and simply say, “That’s a good story, I enjoyed it the first hundred times you told it.”-Wendy

Waddle Waddle

So you’re fifty something. You look in the mirror and like what you see. For the first time in your life, you take really good care of yourself. You work out. I do water aerobics three times a week. My sister, who is a year older (and always will be) walks and does yoga. I have a sister-in-law that could out-ride Lance Armstrong and another that you don’t dare call between 5 and 6am as it’s her workout/meditation time. Most of my close friends are into the walking thing. I hate walking. I get bored seeing the same sights day after day. If I go out to walk it’s usually with the damn (I mean, wonderful) dog. By the time he sniffs, pees, barks at the birds, squirrels, rabbits, other dogs, bees, gnats...well you get the idea... I’ve walked a mile in just under an hour. This is not working out. It’s painful and boring. But I am overcome with guilt walking without him, as I pass my house on the second mile and see his little nose pressed up against the window. An hour later we make it back to the house and I’m exhausted from standing around watching him do his thing. I tried to take him to the dog park, but he seemed to want to get to familiar with some of the other male dogs.

So we, as fifty-somethings, walk, swim and twist our bodies, strengthen our cores with yoga and Pilates. Our bodies are firmer than ever. We eat better because now that the kids are gone there are no snacks around to tempt us. However, glancing in the mirror you still see a few parts that can’t be covered. They’ll give your age away every time; your hands and your neck. There are those pesky skin tags and age spots. Every time a spot pops up, I remember the commercial where the woman says, “They call them age spots, I just call them ugly”. I’ve tried the creams and they work temporarily, but I’m not good at having to do something every day for the rest of my life. I bought into the crazy ads and tried all of them. But once I embraced the changes and went back to my soap and water and a light moisturizer I was much happier.

My dermatologist has become my new best friend. One quick snip and those pesky skin tags are gone forever. He offered to use a little Botox around my eyes, but I explained that years of raising children had already given me that constantly surprised look I’ve come to love; I’ll leave the Botox for others.