Fitness Follies: My
Life at the Gym
by Diane
Girard
The powers-that-be
allowed a fitness center to be built in my neighbourhood. I didn't
know about this threat to my wellbeing until they put up the sign.
This fitness palace is so close to where I live that there was
no excuse for not going to the Grand Opening.
The tour guide pointed
out the many state-of-the-art fitness machines; the beautiful
group-exercise room, the whirlpool hot tub and the cycling room
for spinning classes. People of all ages were busy using the equipment.
The schedule showed the many classes available for beginners like
me. Before I knew it, I had acquired a one-year membership.
It was the last painless
thing I would do in the building.
I am an active person
who doesn't drive and instead takes daily walks. Last summer,
I painted my entire apartment in a week climbing up and down a
ladder three million times. I've pushed 250-pound people in wheelchairs
up inclines. I thought I was reasonably fit. I believed this before
I went to my first basic no-bounce aerobics class.
Everyone knows that
word, aerobics. It's a modest word that tells you little.
The information sheet from the fitness center said "beginner level
…this class teaches you some simple low-impact combinations while
keeping your heart rate in the training zone for about 20 minutes."
I went to my first 45-minute class with enthusiasm. Mottoes from
my half-marathon running friend rushed through my brain (sweat
is good and feel the burn), "you'll feel so good
afterward."
She lies.
I staggered out of
the first class thankful to have survived it. My heart rate had
gone beyond the training zone and into territory not entered since
the days of labor pains. I had to go down the stairs from the
aerobics studio sideways when my knees refused to bend but
I learned to do the grapevine.
Three days later, when
all my parts had almost returned to their normal places, I went
to my second aerobics class. I discovered I couldn't rock to my
heels, lift my toes from the floor and remain standing. Could
I get a research grant to investigate this? We marched, raised
our knees and lifted our arms for what must have been several
hours. Then the instructor said we were finished the warm-up.
When the class ended several years later, one person was missing,
a teenager at the far end of the room had wilted and left. I smiled.
After several aerobics
classes, my heart rate had reached the famous target zone and
I became more ambitious. Someone mentioned Pilates classes. The
fact sheet says Pilates is a "low stress method of physical and
mental conditioning …The focus is on core strength, stability,
postural and strength imbalances." Someone hd forgotten to mention
that core strength refers to abdominal muscles. The instructor,
who has abs of steel, corrected my every movement. "Pilates is
a very technical way of exercising," she said. I didn't have enough
breath to speak.
I escaped to the hot
tub after class and remained there until the instructor had left
the building.
Better return to basic
aerobics, I thought. There, I could yell at the instructors when
they said jump. "It's a no-bounce class!" I'd holler.
They always apologised
for forgetting. I could get through a complete class now without
stopping for more than three water breaks. Why not try a dance-it
class?
Notice the word dance.
I should have taken that word seriously. The only dances I know
are the waltz and what's known here as the Canadian shuffle. (Hold
your partner tight, sway back and forth, foot movement is optional.)
"Don't worry if you don't get it the first time," the instructor
said as she dazzled us with three mambo variations.
I was just learning
the first one when she shifted to another set of steps. "Get ready
to samba."
I would have yelled,
'Mama Loves Mambo', but it was too hard to use my mouth
and feet at the same time.
I moved right; everyone
else turned left. I continued in a straight line; everyone else
twirled backward. Fortunately, their mistakes did not cause any
collisions. At the end of the class, the instructor suggested
that anyone who had difficulty following the steps should consider
waiting for the next ten-week session to start. Why was she looking
at me?
It was time for something
gentle — yoga class. The information sheet said, "Experience
a new level of relaxation as you are guided through this wonderful
stress relieving workout."
Before the first class,
I was calm and reflective. This will be easy; I've done it before
and some people in their eighties do yoga. Well, from now on,
I'll genuflect to pictures of anyone over the age of forty sitting
in the perfect lotus position with a serene face.
My lotus would
not open.
It was neither serene,
nor straight. Some of the other positions were somewhat possible.
The sponge posture is my favourite because you lie on your back
and breathe. After this gentle morning class, I went home and
promptly fell into an exhausted coma for two hours.
It's been three months
since the start of this adventure. I'm still going to my basic
no-bounce classes and other classes. No one is telling me I look
wonderful, but my stamina has improved. There was a one-week period
when I couldn't go to the gym. I didn't miss it very much, but
I've returned. My friend was right about one thing; some people
at the fitness center are not as fit as I am. I plan to move up
the ladder. There are still things to learn: the rowing machine
and the other body-part toning machines on the main floor.
Maybe the great-looking
older man who knows how to use them all will help me.
Diane Girard
is 59 years old and lives in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada near her
family of a daughter and two grandsons. Diane began writing poetry
and fiction in grade school and has continued to scribble for
her own pleasure while earning a living in different ways. She
has had several careers and is currently not considering
becoming a consultant.
In the late
1960's, Diane worked in one of the first women's Information and
Referral Centres in Canada. She also participated in consciousness-raising
groups and duked it out on paper with a radical feminist leader
who felt Diane should not be married. Diane returned to school
part-time and became a Library Technician. There was no work in
that field. She was sent to school by the government and became
a bookkeeper. She disliked bookkeeping intensely. Diane worked
for Bell Canada, the Law Reform Commission, a brokerage house
and other employers too odious to mention before finding career
happiness working with seniors. Diane sings in a local choir and
is a classically trained pianist who now plays for her own amazement.
She reads constantly and is addicted to poppy seed rolls and Tim
Horton's coffee.
Flattering
comments may be sent to her via e-mail at digirar@sprint.ca
