On Personal Training and Bonbons and the New Year--Karen
While I was in my thirties I had a pretty specific goal for the years after I turned fifty. I was going to get fat and slothful, drinking wine and eating bonbons all day as I caught up on a lifetime of novels. I expected that blissful period to last a few years, and that would be that.
Imagine my surprise when I got married and had children and realized I needed to be on my toes for at least two more decades. Imagine my further surprise when I reached retirement and came to understand that I still had decades more to live. Being slothful and eating bonbons for thirty years did not sound that interesting, even if the novels were great.
So on to plan B. Stay healthy and engaged, and create a modern retirement. I finally gave in to repeated suggestions that I try personal training. It had always seemed silly, and I was too busy, and no-one would do it at 4:30 in the morning. But now my excuses have run out.
So Vincent has come into my life. A very pleasant young man who can make his body do all sorts of things at the drop of a hat, and who laughs heartily at my efforts to follow. He was sad when he saw my gait, and a few other things about how I move. He surmised quickly that I had had a desk job for many years. But he has gamely taken on the task of trying to teach me how to move. Like a baby.
It is difficult. Following even simple commands is tough. Sometimes painful. And I am not sure I have all the relevant body parts. "Engage your lats," Vincent cries, refusing to believe my response that I have no lats. But he got me when he highlighted that awful tv ad about the woman who has fallen and can't get up. He scathingly remarked, "You know why she can't get up? Because she can't roll over." Yes, he is teaching me to roll over. And lunge. And squat. It is not a pretty sight.
So now I have a new life plan--to get fat and slothful at 95. By then, the goal may slip out of my grasp again, of course, and I may find that I will live to be 200 but as a partial robot. Meanwhile, I have put my faith in Vincent and his foam roller. What does not kill me it will make me stronger. I hope.