No Such Thing

When will I learn that when an old item crumbles or won't come clean, it's time to buy new? Towels I bleach and bleach until they fray, or rubber gloves with two fingers fused with hardened LocTite are still serviceable, I say, and keep using them. Then the day comes when my eyes are opened, like people's are in the Bible. Today while lying on the folding mat that I loll on daily, indoors and out, a foam mat used for 25, maybe 30 years not only for lolling on rugs and concrete and grass but for exercise and camping and blissing out and suffering agonies (just the normal agonies of any lifetime, no big deal) and napping, I realize that little acid-green crumbs, the mat's core, are coming through the pink, and they're not bugs.

The thing has worn out.

 

I use the mat daily, often more than once. In summer it's hosed down, washed with soap and a scrub brush, and dried in the sun. It's thinning out, and the edges curl. I slept on this mat the night I moved into the Divine Cabin, before there was furniture. It was June. Warm breezes wafted through the screens. I was in such ecstasy I thought I might not sleep.

The manufacturer I assumed must be long out of business since their mats last 25 years. So I spent an hour looking at possible substitutes. It is thicker than a yoga mat, and its top is not sticky but sueded. (When I bought it there was no such thing on the market as yoga mats.) Those crash mats covered with vinyl; one can't loll on vinyl. I don't want one I must roll and unroll and tie. One (I guess literally only me -- there is no such thing even on Amazon!) wants a mat one can fling open the selfsame second one is seized by the impulse to loll or do push-ups.

 

Oh hell, I thought. I'll google the brand. Amazing: It's still in business! But they're down to royal-blue mats only.

 

I will take it! This pink one I will repurpose for gardening or seating.

Muscling Up

"You start losing muscle mass in your 30s," the senior-yoga-class instructor told our class, "and lose 10 percent more every year." I called out, "That's not fair."

The instructor ignored me and advised us all to work with weights and to up the poundage every time we got good at it. Don't get old, get strong.

She's right, but strength, I secretly think, is secondary. Priority goes to keeping a somewhat youthful shape, and especially knees not draped with crepe-y flesh. So, telling myself it's about knee strength, I started with the "quad" weight machine and related exercises. The "quads" are the long, tough vertical muscles in front of the thighs.

Two weeks, three weeks: The crepe went away! Now that's motivation!

Coincidentally, this is the season the quite common and ordinary Russula mushrooms, such as the one pictured (about 3" in diameter),  muscle their way out of the soil, displacing it if they have to. It takes Russulas about two days to fight their way to standing and you can watch their progress. They lift with their stems and caps more earth than I can with a shovel from this tough, packed, weed-choked soil. They get scarred. They don't quit. What inspires them? Maybe they wanted to be up in time for the autumn equinox. Happy equinox today!

The Middle

Thought about it -- but this is all I think about, so here it is. I trimmed the photos to reduce TMI and here's the evidence of the shrinking and much stronger middle. I attend 2 or 3 classes a week at a studio called Barre3. Began in the first week of October 2018 because strenuous exercise helps me beat the winter short-daylight cold-outside people-are-dying blues, and the "senior" classes I took were too easy and held at hours that affected my workday. One-hour barre classes are given from 6 a.m. to 6:15 p.m., and I attend when work and energy and drive time allow. Gosh, the endorphin rush and pink face after the hour is over! Guaranteed unretouched homemade photos. Bother you? Imagine it like a January thaw.

After 2 classes

after 6 classes

After 11 classes

After 16 classes

That last photo was taken in mid-December. I'm even stronger through the core today while eating, holiday-style, twice or thrice the normal allotment of cookies and pastries.

Recovering from my very first session took a week. Now it's only two days. I'm the worst participant and must clutch the barre for dear life or fall over, but am game. This sport is less social than the senior scene; most attendees are young wives or mothers, and an occasional youngun wears a tee saying "Sweating for the Wedding." In all the classes so far I have seen exactly four men, one the instructor's husband. I'm among the few over-60s.

One Meal a Day

I was priding myself on eating only one meal per day because it made life simple. It was frugal. It was nutritious, I made sure: vegetables and protein, some grains, fat, and fruit. Most importantly, it saved time and effort. I wasn't dieting; I needed that time in order to work more. Fewer dishes, less waste and less time spent cleaning up: One meal a day seemed ideal.

Then I realized a half-hour walk or a 40-minute yoga video or a 50-minute "senior" class at the rec center, or any exercise whatever, depleted me so I had to lie down soon after coming home, ears ringing and so exhausted I felt poisoned. Even thinking was an effort. At times two days passed before I summoned enough energy to do my job, or gussy up and go places. I sat instead of standing whenever I could. Craftily, I enrolled in an evening exercise class so I could go to bed soon afterward. I let myself sleep an hour longer. This helped a little.

The meal was at midday or a bit later. Clever me, making soup that'd last three days, and no-cook sandwiches or salad, and maybe yogurt and berries or chia-seed pudding. More than enough for someone who sits and writes all day. And coffee. A banana for a snack, or the white of a boiled egg, or 1.5 oz. of tuna on a Ry-Krisp (dangerously close to a meal). Pasta on Fridays only. Meanwhile I'm gulping vitamins and Tylenol, looking puzzled at perfect blood-test results, reading up on rare diseases (chronic fatigue? thyroid? cardiac? worse?), feeling weak, and reading message boards. What could be wrong with me?

Why could people much older than myself exercise daily while two sessions a week left me, like, paralyzed? Was this my metabolism? Genetics? Father Time telling me to "let myself go"?

As it turns out, you can't live and work and exercise without sufficient fuel. Exercise uses and then depletes glycogen (energy) stores. I had almost none stored because of chronic under-eating. When athletes deplete their glycogen they call it "hitting the wall," and it's like pulling the plug from an electrical appliance, you are that fatigued that suddenly. I was used to saying "I'm not that hungry" (true), "I hate dishes," and "I don't want to take the time." Needless to say I was not my cheery self, either. Yes, under-eating is a thing. Without glycogen your body eats your muscle tissue, and curves go flat, and whatever held you up fails to do so.

Must . . . Quit . . .Exercising

I find in the past two years I don't recover from workouts as I once did, and believing I was just lazy and "exercise is energizing" I stepped it up to six workouts a week, becoming, cumulatively, so achy and exhausted I lived on Tylenols and coffee, lost any ambition and couldn't think straight. I cut workouts back to two per week, tried to sleep more. Still enough tiredness and pain to fog my brain, with even the gentlest exertions! "Eat more protein," they said, so I did. No change. All relevant tests turn up negative. There is naught to do but quit, at least until I've recovered.

This happened before; I thought it was mental stress only. It took two months of full-time lying on the carpet to recover. Then I returned to exercising. Again, depletion. Last summer was without exercise except for targeted physical therapy. I got slenderer! My energy returned -- I even felt creative! Then I began exercising again: within a few months, crippling depletion.

Is it possible that after 40 years there is an end to exercise -- for me? I've been working out and belonging to gyms since I was 24: weights, hiking, treadmill, ballet, biking (okay, only 50 miles max), raking, pruning, running (time was when the bones could take it), yoga, Pilates, aerobics, tae kwon do, spinning, the works. Didn't hate it at all! Would love to go back to ballet barre and yoga classes! Others 20 years older than myself exercise for six classes per week and feel fine.

Hit You Like a Deer

Januaries test our tolerance and endurance. Mine and others'. One day while driving on Doc Sargent Road I saw a woman taking a vigorous walk along the (shoulder-less) road as I have done for 16 years, and my first reaction on seeing her was not "go girl" but irritation at having to be careful driving past -- kind of like you feel when a bicyclist is pedaling uphill on a two-lane road and the cars that accumulate behind him must crawl after him. I wondered, is that what drivers feel when they see me out walking?

I recall some years ago seeing a lone woman taking an exercise walk along Highway O. (Athletic shoes gave away her purpose.) She was well bundled up, but I realized with horror that out in the open without any woods to back her she looked like a target. A target. Maybe it's not true, but some years ago a driver deliberately hit a female walker, then dragged her into the woods, raped her, and left her for dead. He returned some hours later and she's still alive so he kills her. Stephen King survived being hit by a drunk as he walked along a rural road in Maine.

Reasons I shouldn't walk on roadsides anymore: denser population and therefore more cars; I'm older and maybe a little slower and more of an annoyance and really really don't want to risk being hit; I don't want to look like a target; people text while driving even if they shouldn't; people take more medication legal and not; they're less patient; and there are alternatives.

So I became devious, and one day followed a new path on property that was none of my business but I figured no one would see me, to a section of LaBarque Creek new to me. The cliffs pictured are about 20 feet high. I'd have liked to get closer to dramatize their scale, but couldn't risk the icy rocks. Maybe I'll try again when the temperature's above the single digits and I have boots and poles. Meanwhile I walk in circles and back and forth on my own property, or get in the car and drive a mile down to public space.

Something Completely Different

On Sept. 1, I started tae kwon do as a "white belt," the stupidest belt. I did know I must respectfully bow as I stepped onto and off the mats, but not toward blank walls, dummy; toward the U.S. and Korean flags hung in front of the room. I received an all-white uniform and a white belt, symbol of what is kindly called "innocence," and was shown how to tie the belt properly. At home I worked for 30 frustrating minutes before succeeding in tying it. Next class I proudly showed up in uniform with a well-tied belt, and a black belt said, "Your top is on inside out."

Each class begins with calisthenics: pushups, situps, stretches, twists. My 11:00 a.m. class consists of three four-year-olds, a three-year-old, and myself. The sympathetic black belt instructor who knows I'm 58 told me "Do what you can." Thought I was fairly fit from lifting weights and walking.

Because I'm the only adult in the class, the master instructor, Dien, patiently leads me in a set of slow-motion pushups and situps. Then we stand and I follow the master as we practice, in slow motion, intricate arm movements: the head block and I forget what else. Then slow-motion kicks. Unlike a flamingo I can't balance on one leg; the master either holds my hand so I don't fall over, or I grip for dear life a stationary punching dummy. I'm learning the front kick, roundhouse, and back kick, discovering they take foot and ankle strength, exactly the muscles that weight training ignores. Then, drenched in sweat, I punch the bag with my bare knuckles, lightly, concentrating on the target and my form. The knuckles split open anyway. The goal is 60 punches in 15 seconds. At the end of the lesson the master and I bow to each other. Then all other belts shake hands with any black belts present.

Why do this? Because it's only 6 highway miles to the gym. Because the natural year is declining and instead of getting depressed as usual I'm setting a healthy goal: a yellow belt. One must be able to block, kick (without someone holding your hand), punch, obey three commands and count to ten in Korean to pass the exam. After I stuck out my first three lessons, I received, not a new belt -- that'll take months -- but a new top with the school's emblem and the U.S. and Korean flags.

Why I Hired a Personal Trainer

For the past month I’ve had a personal trainer. Not because I plan to be sleek, buff, catlike or muscular, but I needed to re-learn how to exercise, that being a non-negotiable for women who need more muscle and bone just to function (and live on 100 rugged acres). My back hurt (whose doesn’t?) so I had quit ballet. Fearing further injury I quit Zumba. I quit step aerobics. I quit upright cycling and went recumbent. I quit exercises I’ve done for 30 years. And the less I exercised the weaker I became, so I exercised less--a vicious circle.

            When I'd joined the gym a few years ago, a trainer in his 20s worked me like a Marine. I couldn’t take it. That trainer was embarrassed to hear I’d had a mastectomy, mentioned because it affects my balance. This year I was lucky to meet Kevin Edwards (pictured), who is my age, a regional bodybuilding champion in the master’s division in his weight class, and he knows, quote, “Boomers have issues.” He told me that between trainer and trainee communication is key. I gave him a chiropractor’s chart of my back. Kevin’s training program targeted my sore spots, strengthened my core and improved my balance and posture. Toned muscles can stabilize weak points in the spine. We worked for one hour twice a week. He advised me on eating habits and I’ve changed mine bite by bite. “Whenever you eat a carbohydrate, always eat protein with it,” he says. “Eat your fruit in the morning,” he says, “so you can burn off the sugar. Eat vegetables after noon.” In the illustration you see the “One-Armed Romanian Deadlift” I had never heard of and am still trying to master. It works the core and most everything else, including balance.

            Personal training is costly but is one of the best investments I have made. If you don’t already, try making your health a top priority.  Because if you’re sick or hurting, nothing in life is good.

Yes, I Do Chicken Fat

The coveted Kennedy/LBJ-era fitness patch

Full-body exercise being what it is -- important -- I want to do it, but as briefly as possible, and therefore have returned, after 45 years, to exercising to the 6-minute 33-second sound recording called "Chicken Fat," written by the composer of "The Music Man," Meredith Willson, and performed by its star, Robert Preston, and released in 1961. It's on You Tube should you miss the Cold War era when Mrs. L put it on the turntable and forced your class to exercise to it. It gets the lead out on slow mornings. I do it daily and can now do those insufferable 10 pushups military style and have developed genuine see-able front delts.

Odd history, this song. Health people concerned that we kids were watching too much TV formed the President's Council on Physical Fitness, under President Kennedy. They commissioned the writing and recording of "Chicken Fat" and sent millions of copies of the 45 rpm disc to schools. Once past its corniness it isn't a bad little workout, but obviously the only model for physical fitness back then was military, so you get orders to march ("Left! Left! Left a good pound and a quarter; was it right? Right? Then it should be left!") interspersed with the jumping jacks, pushups, bicycle, deep breathing and arm circles. And when was the last time anybody told you to touch your toes ten times to get physically fit? Or to run in place, for heaven's sake (the culminating exercise)? It's a time capsule of WWII boot camp (Robert Preston was in the army for years; you can hear it in his voice).

Yes, it's dated, but it's simple and cheap. No equipment required and only a few square feet of space and costs nothing but willpower and discipline. There's been a call for the present government to commission and distribute a motivational exercise recording on the "Chicken Fat" model. Of course it could not be uncool, so it will never be made, because kids nowadays won't do anything uncool and that changes hourly, and no matter what, there'd be parents filing lawsuits about it. Back then we did what we were told or got sent to the principal who lectured us about the Soviet threat.