Before the age of 55, I had maintained a fairly youthful appearance, body and spirit … almost buff, actually, if I may brag a little. Keeping a full time job, and keeping up home and yard seemed to be enough to keep me that way, and still let me eat like a man. Since then, the spirit has remained youthful, but, I just don’t feel the same on the inside as I have started looking on the outside. After a particularly dibilitating illness everything started to go south. My muscles atrophied, and my strength waned. I took an early retirement and didn’t do much but write and keep house, and until a few months ago, I hadn't done anything seriously about shaping up. No diet worked by itself.
By the time I was 58, my entire body (according to magazine articles) had become a veritable deli / pastry shop. I first started noticing this one day while talking to my brother, GIII, on the phone while I sat at my computer. As I glanced down to my lap to see where I’d dropped cookie crumbs on my lap (wearing cut-offs);the conversation went like this:
“Oh, my God!” I screeched,
“What’s wrong, Sis!!?” Said GIII.
“I have Mom’s legs!!!” I whailed.
“Oh, no! Not YOU!” “What the hell happened?” He said.
Let me tell you this right now. Our mother had eleven children, and I never ever knew her to exercise a day in her life. Her weight was up and down all of her adult life, not including pregnancies. Her legs looked as though they were filled with lumpy oatmeal. This is not to say she was unattractive otherwise … just when she wore shorts.
I had noticed that I had what is referred to as a muffin top above my to-the-waist jeans. My butt was becoming a large loaf of dimpled Focaccia bread. My thighs were definitely lumpy curds and whey, and my upper arms were large elongated lobes of raw dough, draped from elbow to armpit, and swinging freely. BINGO!
I will say here, that women over 50 should not read magazines, or pay any attention to online ads for diets. It’s very intimidating and disheartening because they only use models’ bodies to show the after shots of people who have allegedly lost a lot of weight. They just glue a lay-person’s head on the model's body, and even the face is airbrushed and narrowed. Anyone can do that in Photo-Shop.
You just don’t see that your honey is aging and putting on the pounds right along with you. I whined and mewled that I’d started getting flabby (at least), and he smiled and hugged me and told me that I was just fine with him. In actuality, I heard, Well, I love you any way. I know this is true, because when he whined and mewled that he was aging and gaining weight, I told him, that as far as I was concerned, he was the sexiest man on earth. At which he said, “Yeah, but you’re prejudice!” Humph! True enough, even though he is to me the man that hung the moon and stars.
That doesn’t make up for the way I feel about what was happening to my body! So, I joined a gym and was evaluated by a trainer. That must have been what I needed. This trainer was not quite my age, but she looked really great, and I felt like a real lump next to her. I was to begin my training immediately.
Good! That’s what was needed. I started working out four times a week in the Women’s Health and Fitness Room, as opposed to the big co-ed equipment room. I did not want to or need to be around a lot of testosterone while working out. I did two miles on a treadmill at 3.5 mph. This takes me almost 45 minutes. I really thought that was great, until some young thing with a pony tail jumped on the treadmill to my right. “Good morning!” She chirped sweetly. And then she turned her treadmill on to a full gallop. Egad! I tried to remember that she must have been only about 20 years old. I noticed too, that she had not started to sweat. Then she cranked up the speed. By that time I’d just reached 2 miles, and was glad to get on with my work-out … elsewhere.
There are ten weight-bearing machines that I am using in my circuit training. With each piece of equipment, I set the seat and the weight according to what I can do with some effort. There are about three of those that just intimidate the hell out of me. One is the Leg Extender. You sit with the tops of you feet under a padded, weighted bar (about 20 lb.). The object is to lift it with your feet twelve times, rest and do twelve more. The burning pain on the tops of my thighs reminded me of the ring of fire referred to in child birth. This is when the head crowns, and it so does feel like a ring of fire!
The other two intimidating ones deal with the arms. The Arm Curl is one I’m still trying to adjust to. I Can’t seem to do more than 15 to 20 lb. A very large woman approached me while I was trying to get three more in, and told me not to bend my wrists. FINE! Add to my struggle! Actually, I just told her thank you. She explained that I could hurt my wrists by letting them pull the weight. Thank you, but that just made it harder … another ring of fire on the back of my arms.
By the time I’m finished, I have a healthy, misty glow going on and am terribly thirsty. I go over to the very nice water cooler provided and drink up what I need. I chat with the trainer on duty for a minute and then head out. As I drive home, I think of the progress I’ve made in the past two months. My bingo arms aren’t hanging as badly, and my jeans are actually fitting better. I am still not weighing for another month or so. The scale in the kitchen still has a post-it over the readout that says 140 lb. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just fine with me. I’m doing what I need to be doing. My trainer said so!
Now, I’ve got to deal with my sweet Royster, who is also my very own diet saboteur. “No, you go ahead and have ice cream. I’ll just have this nice small tub of yogurt.”
