Almost Yoga
I'm on the Express Train to fifty. For awhile I thought I was on a nice slow commuter. You know, the ones that stop every so often so people can get on and off? I dozed off and when I woke up, the scenery going by was a blur. It may be more than a year and a half away, but fifty is going to be here long before I'm truly ready for it and decisively ok with it.
I've been faking that one, too. I keep telling myself and others that I'm almost fifty. It's not exactly a lie, but it's not entirely the truth either. I figure if I start believing that little-not-quite-a-white-lie now, it'll make actually being 50 more palatable. Or so I like to think. On March 26, 2019, I might curl up into the fetal position in a blanket fort and never emerge. Or I might run a half marathon. There's no way of knowing. I've been pretty can-do about aging thus far (if you can call the thirties and forties aging) so safe money probably says I'll be sailing around the world or enjoying my morning coffee in some far flung Eastern European city.
Here's the thing - that Express Train isn't going to stop for long at fifty. Nope, before I blink, it'll be rounding the bend on sixty, then seventy, eighty, and beyond. There's no stopping it. Advanced age and, eventually death, come for all of us. That being said, my goal is to age as slowly and as graciously as I can. I don't want to roll into the grave - or worse, be rolled; I want to pole vault. My most ardent hope is that I die somewhere north of 103 while playing tennis or doing a Spin class. Lofty goals, I know.
Earlier this summer, I got to take a long, hard look at my father's mortality. Luckily as of this writing, he is still with us but his health seems to be in free fall. He spent his career sitting behind a desk and, other that taking care of the yard and throwing spirals to me as a kid, he was sedentary. In retirement, his hobbies were reading and watching TV. Now, as he approaches his ninetieth year, he's barely hanging on.
I could look at my dad and say that eighty-nine is good enough. He's lived a full life and has damn near closed out nine decades. But I wonder. Had he paid closer attention to his health - eaten better and exercised even a little - would he be in a different position? Not bouncing between a rehab facility and a hospital while my sisters and I hope some day he'll be well enough for assisted living, I mean. Granted nothing is assured. If he'd taken up cycling at sixty, he might have gotten hit by a car or died of a heart attack after finishing a century on his seventy-fifth birthday, but chances are he'd be doing better than he is.
From my seat here on the Express Train, I have to believe that doing the right things now will have a positive impact on my future health. I look around me at the people who are aging well - looking young, feeling young, and able to act young - and I see that they have one thing in common. They have all worked diligently and consistently on their health for many, many years. They didn't start when they turned seventy or eighty. On the contrary, they have made a lifetime of good decisions.
Admittedly, I've done pretty good for my first forty-eight years. Even though I've had a few lapses, for most of the last thirty years, I've tried to make reasonably healthy food choices and I've been far from sedentary. Because of that, thankfully I've got a good base and I'm well ahead of a lot of people. My hard work has paid off thus far, but what about the next forty-eight years and beyond? I'll need to keep doing what I've been doing. And more.
One area that needs urgent attention is my flexibility. It's been a life-long issue. Recall the Sit and Reach from high school fitness testing? "Stacee, you have to reach the yard stick to get a score. Try again..." It was the great leveler for me. And because I rarely do things I suck at - golf, darts, swimming to name a few - I never did anything that might demonstrate my horrid inflexibility. Yes, yes... I know how fitness works. You suck at first then get better. Unfortunately, I could never quite get over the hump with flexibility. My fear is that one day I'm really going to pay the price. Remember when I said above that I might spend my fiftieth birthday in the fetal position? If I don't do something now, it might be the only option available. I don't want to end up shriveled up and curled up, bent backed and stoop shouldered. All because I didn't want to do something I sucked at.
That's why I hired a personal trainer, who also happens to be a trusted friend, to help me become more flexible. I trust him to see me at my suckiest and not laugh. I trust him to push the limits of my inflexibility without going too far. I trust him to not call it yoga even if he does lead me through certain poses that seem yoga-like.
What's wrong with yoga? For me, literally everything. I have long said I'd never do it. It didn't even matter how pretty the instructor was. Given that I'm usually a sucker for pretty women, you can see how big this anti-yoga thing is for me. Don't get me wrong, it's ok for other people. I'm not trying to steal anyone's yoga or talk down anyone's passion, but... For me, yoga is slow, boring, and there's no loud music to drown out the discomfort. I know it's chock full of health benefits, but yoga doesn't burn nearly enough calories and there are absolutely no balls to chase. Thus, yoga has been an absolute no-go for me. Up 'til now.
I know what Manny, my trainer, is thinking. (1) He's pretty enough to make me do yoga...eventually and (2) eventually I'll do yoga. I'm not going to argue with him. Even though our first meeting was painful - Good God, man, is my body intended to bend that far in that direction? What in the hell muscle was that?!? - I feel like it was the best thing I've done for my future health in a long time.
And really, it was no more awful than a lot of fitness activities. I don't particularly relish the time I spend doing cardio and lifting. I wish there was some other way, a pill maybe. Wouldn't that be easy? Everyone could be fit and healthy! But, you know, I've gone back to it time and time again since I started trying to get fit in my late teens. Nothing replaces hard work and nothing replaces the feeling of accomplishment that comes from that hard work. A pill can't do that. Only sweat, pain, and fortitude can.
I'm trusting that all that goes for flexibility, too. Because Jesus in yoga pants, I am probably the least flexible person alive without a diagnosable condition. Right now. My hope is that one day, if I keep at it, I will be able to contort my body and mind into all kinds of pretzel like positions. Without wincing. And whimpering. And wishing for Manny's untimely demise.
Seriously, I don't see a choice. I can either prepare myself now or pay later. The Express Train isn't going to stop. One day my ticket will be punched and that'll be that. What I do along the way will determine what I do along the way. If it's gotta be yoga or a reasonable facsimile, then so be it.
I cannot believe I just said that. I guess age'll do crazy things.
I've been faking that one, too. I keep telling myself and others that I'm almost fifty. It's not exactly a lie, but it's not entirely the truth either. I figure if I start believing that little-not-quite-a-white-lie now, it'll make actually being 50 more palatable. Or so I like to think. On March 26, 2019, I might curl up into the fetal position in a blanket fort and never emerge. Or I might run a half marathon. There's no way of knowing. I've been pretty can-do about aging thus far (if you can call the thirties and forties aging) so safe money probably says I'll be sailing around the world or enjoying my morning coffee in some far flung Eastern European city.
Here's the thing - that Express Train isn't going to stop for long at fifty. Nope, before I blink, it'll be rounding the bend on sixty, then seventy, eighty, and beyond. There's no stopping it. Advanced age and, eventually death, come for all of us. That being said, my goal is to age as slowly and as graciously as I can. I don't want to roll into the grave - or worse, be rolled; I want to pole vault. My most ardent hope is that I die somewhere north of 103 while playing tennis or doing a Spin class. Lofty goals, I know.
Earlier this summer, I got to take a long, hard look at my father's mortality. Luckily as of this writing, he is still with us but his health seems to be in free fall. He spent his career sitting behind a desk and, other that taking care of the yard and throwing spirals to me as a kid, he was sedentary. In retirement, his hobbies were reading and watching TV. Now, as he approaches his ninetieth year, he's barely hanging on.
I could look at my dad and say that eighty-nine is good enough. He's lived a full life and has damn near closed out nine decades. But I wonder. Had he paid closer attention to his health - eaten better and exercised even a little - would he be in a different position? Not bouncing between a rehab facility and a hospital while my sisters and I hope some day he'll be well enough for assisted living, I mean. Granted nothing is assured. If he'd taken up cycling at sixty, he might have gotten hit by a car or died of a heart attack after finishing a century on his seventy-fifth birthday, but chances are he'd be doing better than he is.
From my seat here on the Express Train, I have to believe that doing the right things now will have a positive impact on my future health. I look around me at the people who are aging well - looking young, feeling young, and able to act young - and I see that they have one thing in common. They have all worked diligently and consistently on their health for many, many years. They didn't start when they turned seventy or eighty. On the contrary, they have made a lifetime of good decisions.
Admittedly, I've done pretty good for my first forty-eight years. Even though I've had a few lapses, for most of the last thirty years, I've tried to make reasonably healthy food choices and I've been far from sedentary. Because of that, thankfully I've got a good base and I'm well ahead of a lot of people. My hard work has paid off thus far, but what about the next forty-eight years and beyond? I'll need to keep doing what I've been doing. And more.
One area that needs urgent attention is my flexibility. It's been a life-long issue. Recall the Sit and Reach from high school fitness testing? "Stacee, you have to reach the yard stick to get a score. Try again..." It was the great leveler for me. And because I rarely do things I suck at - golf, darts, swimming to name a few - I never did anything that might demonstrate my horrid inflexibility. Yes, yes... I know how fitness works. You suck at first then get better. Unfortunately, I could never quite get over the hump with flexibility. My fear is that one day I'm really going to pay the price. Remember when I said above that I might spend my fiftieth birthday in the fetal position? If I don't do something now, it might be the only option available. I don't want to end up shriveled up and curled up, bent backed and stoop shouldered. All because I didn't want to do something I sucked at.
That's why I hired a personal trainer, who also happens to be a trusted friend, to help me become more flexible. I trust him to see me at my suckiest and not laugh. I trust him to push the limits of my inflexibility without going too far. I trust him to not call it yoga even if he does lead me through certain poses that seem yoga-like.
What's wrong with yoga? For me, literally everything. I have long said I'd never do it. It didn't even matter how pretty the instructor was. Given that I'm usually a sucker for pretty women, you can see how big this anti-yoga thing is for me. Don't get me wrong, it's ok for other people. I'm not trying to steal anyone's yoga or talk down anyone's passion, but... For me, yoga is slow, boring, and there's no loud music to drown out the discomfort. I know it's chock full of health benefits, but yoga doesn't burn nearly enough calories and there are absolutely no balls to chase. Thus, yoga has been an absolute no-go for me. Up 'til now.
I know what Manny, my trainer, is thinking. (1) He's pretty enough to make me do yoga...eventually and (2) eventually I'll do yoga. I'm not going to argue with him. Even though our first meeting was painful - Good God, man, is my body intended to bend that far in that direction? What in the hell muscle was that?!? - I feel like it was the best thing I've done for my future health in a long time.
And really, it was no more awful than a lot of fitness activities. I don't particularly relish the time I spend doing cardio and lifting. I wish there was some other way, a pill maybe. Wouldn't that be easy? Everyone could be fit and healthy! But, you know, I've gone back to it time and time again since I started trying to get fit in my late teens. Nothing replaces hard work and nothing replaces the feeling of accomplishment that comes from that hard work. A pill can't do that. Only sweat, pain, and fortitude can.
I'm trusting that all that goes for flexibility, too. Because Jesus in yoga pants, I am probably the least flexible person alive without a diagnosable condition. Right now. My hope is that one day, if I keep at it, I will be able to contort my body and mind into all kinds of pretzel like positions. Without wincing. And whimpering. And wishing for Manny's untimely demise.
Seriously, I don't see a choice. I can either prepare myself now or pay later. The Express Train isn't going to stop. One day my ticket will be punched and that'll be that. What I do along the way will determine what I do along the way. If it's gotta be yoga or a reasonable facsimile, then so be it.
I cannot believe I just said that. I guess age'll do crazy things.
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