Holly Goes to the Gym, or Pride Cometh Before the Silver Sneakers
Genuine post-workout photo taken in my home. Hairstyle has been left to writhe untouched around my head for authenticity.
So now that I'm on winter break, I have more time during the day than usual. My friend G, who is a self-employed musician and therefore also sometimes has time during the day, invited me to join her at a class at our local Y. It's been a while (<--charitable unit of time) since I last went to work out at the Y, so I wasn't sure if I was up to a full hour-long class yet, but when she mentioned it was a Silver Sneakers class, I figured I could probably hack it. Silver Sneakers, from what I have experienced so far, is a low-impact pilates-style workout for seniors, featuring two-pound weights, a smallish inflated rubber ball, a resistance band that looks like a jump rope made out of surgical tubing in primary colors, and those hotel conference-style chairs, which are whimsically emblazoned with the Silver Sneakers logo on the back. The soundtrack consists of remakes of golden oldies set to a house beat. Festive!
So I went with her on Tuesday and had a nice time, though I felt the results a lot more than I expected the following day; my quad muscles whined at me every time I had to get up or sit down. But I'd had all of Wednesday to rest and recuperate, so when she asked me Wednesday night if I wanted to join her again on Thursday, I said sure! Sounds great!
-Cut to this morning.-
-Verb tense is about to change. It will feel clunky at first but should start to flow shortly after.-
-Just so you're prepared.-
I couldn't fall asleep last night, so I sleep in later than I mean to this morning. But the Y is only a five-minute drive from my house, so no biggie! For Tuesday's class, I foolishly wore a loud pair of leggings (bold teal & bright green tie dye on top with snappy black and white stripes circling the ankles) and stuck out like a plus-sized whippersnapper parrot amidst a flock of subdued drawstring pants and mature cotton-poly blend slacks. I am not eager to repeat that sartorial faux pas this morning, and I'm in a hurry, so I rifle through my bottommost dresser drawer in search of more subtle attire. I elect to forego the college sweatpants ripped up to the kneecap with fashion-forward (at the time!) (okay, no, not even then) panache in favor of the relaxed-fit black nylon track pants with two meek fuchsia stripes running down each leg. I pair them with a regular fitted black v-neck t-shirt, grab a pair of matching fuchsia ankle socks, throw on my shoes and coat, grab my water bottle and keys, and head out the door. It is below freezing today, but the sun is shining, and I was quick enough getting ready that there's just enough time for me to swing by my favorite local croissanterie (yes, sometimes my life is a Nancy Meyers movie) on the way to the Y. Feeling good!
I pop in and am greeted by one of my favorite employees, K, who is a human beam of sunshine. It's been a while since I've last stopped by (but I can't take any virtuous sense of credit for this since the only reason I haven't gone more often over the past week of break is that I've routinely slept in past their morning hours...sad trombone), and he's happy to see me. But then again, he's always happy to see me because he is a personified fusion of puppies, sunbeams, and snuggly blankets. I place my order and we chat briefly as he carefully places each pastry into its own separate bag (These croissants are so indescribably divine that I make it a point to always buy a second one to give to someone else...a croissant ministry, so to speak). I mention that I'm on my way to the gym, and before I realize it, the words "zero sum game" escape my lips*. K is either well-versed in body positive culture, an excellent pastry salesman, or just a cool dude, because he doesn't take the bait, choosing instead to remark encouragingly that during the winter months, it's wise of me to stay warm with some nice pastry :-). Have I mentioned that K is awesome? I wish everyone a good day and am out the door with exactly six minutes to get to the Y, park, check in, and get in place. I savor a couple of bites of bearclaw on the way over and park well down the street because it looks like the lot is totally full. As I hustle up the sidewalk to get to the front door, I realize afresh how cold it is from the chilly bite of wind on my...ankles?
Shoot! It's been so long since I've worn these pants that I forgot they have a slightly too-short inseam coupled with an unhappy propensity for riding up. This causes them to occupy that miserable in-between "high water" length that achieves neither the tastefulness of regular pants nor the jauntiness of cropped. From gaudy to uberdork in one unfortunate step. Neat. Well, I'll just set my chair up in the back of the room and it won't be too big of a deal. That's best anyway since I'm new to this and also pretty tall. I don't want to block anyone's view of the instructor.
G and I converge fortuitously as we're walking into the Y, and I voice my plan to remain in the back of the room today. Unfortunately, the rest of the class had the same plan and was not as tardy as we are. When we arrive, there are four long columns of chairs, each claimed by a punctual senior, stretching all the way back to the supply closet. The only two spots left are front row, center, as close to the instructor as you can get without accidentally kicking her. If this were a Glen Hansard concert, I'd be thrilled! But with the aforementioned circumstances? Not so much.
Oh, well; no time to waste (literally--the opening bass line to "Band of Gold" is blasting along to a rousing techno beat and the instructor is already marching in place). G and I rush to grab our Crayola-hued exercise equipment and solid, cushy chairs and plant ourselves directly behind the instructor, flanking her on each side. We are mere feet away from the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirror, which is of course every lapsed exerciser's dream. As we begin our brisk step-touching, I notice a woman a row or two behind me who resembles a petite, elderly Mrs. Kim. Am I just imagining her casting disapproving stares in my direction as my pant legs inch their cheerful way up my shins? Probably.
As the workout continues, it becomes more intense and I find myself genuinely sweating. Someone turns on one of the big corner fans and it's refreshing to feel the breeze swing by once every thirty seconds. We sit down for a leg lift/bicep curl combination and I instinctively skip a rep to tug my shirt out in the perennial bid to conceal stomach rolls that so many women are all too familiar with. I mean, really, can we talk priorities? We should not be concerned. Think how much sooner we could turn the world around if we devoted those accumulated moments of worrying what we looked like to coming up with a solution for world peace. I mean, come on, nobody else is even looking...oh, hi, Mrs. Kim.
Time to stand back up for some Bow and Arrow arm stretches. After the first set, the instructor has to correct my form. Good, good.
About 25 minutes in, right after we've finished a series of incrementally deeper squats ("Squat (Ugh)-2-3-4! Now lower (Wait, what?)-2-3-4! Now lowest (WHAT?!! NO!!)-2-3-4! Back up-2-3-4!") to a pulsating rendition of "Windy," I notice that I'm beginning to feel eeever so slightly dizzy and a little queasy. I mentally wrestle with the ego-related repercussions of my sitting down less than halfway into a geriatric pilates class, but quickly decide that not only would it be more embarrassing for me to actually FAINT during said class, but that also I'm being rather ageist in my mental calculations of how fit I should be in relation to the rest of the class. Bravo to these robust seniors, vigorously thrusting their hand weights through various dance-like moves such as "The Lawn Mower" and "Stirring the Pot!" I tip my hat to you all! And for myself, I will work to be better at forgetting about age and perhaps acknowledging that a positive life goal would be hitting the gym more than once every three months. Good talk.
When I sit, the instructor steps over to me and inquires after my well-being. I sheepishly tell her that I didn't have much in the way of breakfast this morning (it's true! I didn't even finish my croissant! Also, it's very hot in this room! The fact that I haven't darkened the doors of the YMCA for many a moon has nothing to do with my current condition!) and that I'm just taking a quick breather. She nods understandingly and then announces to the class that if anyone is feeling an upset stomach or dizziness, they should sit down and take a break. She reminds us that we can and should always modify exercises to fit our unique physical needs. I pant gamely in my chair while the rest of the class, toting their multicolored weights, marches cheerily on. Whether out of pity for me or because it's coming up next in the workout, our instructor asks everyone to take a seat as the indefatigably nasal classic-turned-synthy-modern "Yummy Yummy Yummy" begins to blare from the speakers. She notices the amusement on my face and sagely deadpans to the class, "They don't make songs like they used to." This results in heads nodding around the room, as one woman who has been singing along the whole time brightly pipes up, "And you can't even understand the words anymore!" Hard to argue with that. As I actually grew up listening mainly to oldies (Shoutout to K EARTH 101!), and would have probably been singing along myself if I weren't so short of breath, I tend to agree; say what you will about the tone quality of Ohio Express, but their enunciation is close to irreproachable.
The next part of the workout involves stepping on the resistance bands and crossing them over our knees (which feels like it effectively triples the resistance provided. Just what I was hoping for at this point in the game!) while we move our legs in various combinations designed to increasingly test our endurance. As we move, I try to focus on my face in the mirror (eyebrow game is on point today! You go, girl!) and not stray below the neck. Although I know that the conventional definition of "flattering" is narrow and mired in patriarchal nonsense (Sally McGraw has some great things to say about this), I do currently prefer a silhouette for myself that flows graciously around my midsection and rear, leaving something to the imagination. My occasional full length glances have revealed that the pants I hastily chose this morning (whose hems continue to hover a good inch and a half above the top of my socks) are averaging an unimpressive C-minus in this department, and the shirt is not exactly pitching in to help. In the background, Mrs. Kim's glowering visage lets me know that I'm not the only one who has noticed this unbecoming state of affairs. I use my free hand to tug ineffectively at the hem of my fitted t-shirt, which refuses to transform into a sleekly billowing waterfall of fabric. Boo.
As I huff my way through the resistance band exercises, my face is involuntarily becoming more and more contorted from the strain of the workout. At least I know I'm not alone; our instructor chirps out a joyful "Are you all feeling the burn?" and several attendees grunt "Uh-huh" in reply. To our collective dismay, she trills "Great! We're adding two more sets!"
Oy vey.
But we soldier on! At long last, we're allowed to put the resistance bands down and move on to some isometric exercises intended to wring the last bits of life out of our legs. As we are visibly wilting, our instructor, who has maintained her perkiness throughout the hour, engages us in some elaborate semaphore-esque movements which are ostensibly meant to work our arms but which I think really function as distractions from the pain. A variant on this technique is masterfully demonstrated by the man aptly dubbed "The Best Kid Doctor Ever!" by the good people of the internet. Watch the video. You'll be impressed.
Starting to wonder if this blog post will never end? Me too! Just replace "blog post" with "Silver Sneakers workout" and we're on the same page! I am now sneaking increasing glances over at the clock as our instructor injects improvisatory "keep going" and "almost there"s in between counts (She sounds just like this, except that she is not an Austrian-American bodybuilding actor-turned-governor. Identical in every other respect, though.)
We finally reach the cool down stage, where we sit back down in our chairs and are encouraged to stretch our legs by crossing them first at the ankle and then at the knee, "if you can!" I can! I can! I derive unnecessary satisfaction from my ability to situate my ankle atop my knee until I look down and note the expanse of calf revealed by my traitor pants. I sigh and decide to use this rare moment of repose to scan the room beyond myself in the mirror. Mrs. Kim is of course perched haughtily on the edge of her chair, showcasing perfect form and missing nothing that's going on. I admire the chic fashion prowess of the classy lady two rows behind who has taken a page from the Boy Scouts in her attire, modeling a long-sleeved gray tee and olive-colored slacks with thick gray hiking socks and matching boots. Her long gray hair is in a high ponytail and she has tied the outfit together with a scarf of muted jewel tones knotted smartly around her neck. There's the burly fellow who was using barbells from the weight rack instead of hand weights from the crate in the storage room. And when I glance toward the woman directly behind me, a petite firecracker in a vibrant green shirt and tailored slacks who advised me to push my chair even farther forward so I'd have enough room to extend my leg backwards, she catches my eye and smiles.
The session ends and G comes over to me, looking fresh and unfazed though admitting that this instructor is definitely tougher than the one we had on Tuesday. We head out as I tug fruitlessly on my pants, willing them to no avail to step up (or down, rather) and protect my ankles from the arctic clime. She stops by my car so I can give her the spare chocolate croissant, and we wish each other a good day! And it has been :-).
*A few notes regarding body image, diet/exercise culture, compassion, and voice:
1. Like most of us, I do not have this aspect of my life all figured out. I have always been plus-size, and exercise has more often than not felt like a chore or a punishment to me. While the "No pain, no gain" crowd has plenty of devotees, I've been trying to align myself more with the "exercise is for promoting joy, freedom, discipline, and balance. Find something that you like and be generous to yourself" camp. Plenty more to say on that in future blog posts. If you cruised down here in the middle of the paragraph about K and the croissants, cruise back on up and come back at the end of the post!
2. A request for "Mrs. Kim" to forgive my projecting onto her a lifetime of elders taking issue with my size and attire. Good reminder to adult Holly to practice more compassion toward youngsters and elders alike.
3. If this writing style reminds you of someone, I just finished rereading a couple of memoirs by Rhoda Janzen and Jen Lancaster, who are two terrifically funny writers I highly recommend, and I'm definitely channeling them a bit. I'm currently in the middle of Madeleine L'Engle's four-book journal, which I also can't recommend enough. Book recommendations, woohoo! Feel free to leave yours in the comments!
