Judy P's Tickle Trunk

 Aaah, you know you’re getting old when every second sentence you utter starts with “I used to…”  I used to be able to go up steps two at a time. I used to be able to step-dance for hours without fear of mangling my knee joints. Sure, I even used to run a few kilometers while on lunch break at work. Yes, I used to be very active but for the past few years the idea of exercising makes me want to crawl in a cabinet under the stairs and eat cupcakes til I cry.

I was never much for formal group exercise. Once, some fifteen or so years ago, when I felt I needed to make an effort to shed the last vestiges of pregnancy sludge (I thought I was fat then, if the me now could see the me then she would crawl back in the cupboard with the cupcakes sandwiched between slices of Mom’s Christmas cake) I signed up for a community exercise class at the elementary school gym just up the hill from home. Convenient location, convenient time of day and affordable, and best of all, it was mostly a group of women about my own age. Turned out ’twas not fun, not even a little bit.

I believe the class was called ‘aerobics’ and I was the only new person in a class which had been going at it for some months. I put my best foot (newly clad; always looking for an excuse to buy new footwear of any kind) forward and stepped up and out and over, trying to flap my arms in time with the others. I was in such a state of discord that I must have appeared to be having convulsions. The instructor kept asking me “are you okay?” and I’d nod yes though my reddened face, blood-shot eyes and gasping lungs belied me. I would just get the hang of one pattern and she she would switch: “step left” and frantically I would wonder who’s left, mine or hers? and inevitably I’d step out with my ‘other’ left foot and go crashing into some svelte young mother who never knew the smell of her own sweat. The crowning glory came when she did a group exercise in which we were instructed to form a tight line by putting our arm around the waist of the person on either side and then make our way like a chain of line dancers back and forth across the gym. My stepping to the left went okay and I was even close to smiling for a second but then we switched directions and suddenly I was two paces behind and I lost my grip on the waist of the girl next to me. She continued on stepping to the right in perfect rhythm as I lurched towards her; squinting and panting, with  a spray of perspiration like a lawn sprinkler in the dog days of August spouting off my forehead. The harder I tried to connect with her (she had neither fat rolls nor loose fabric in her high-tech athletic shirt to catch) the faster she stepped away and she looked back in horror as I swooped a clutching fist at her waist, missed again, and then made another grab, trying to get some purchase on her. I succeeding in grappling the hem of her sporty new t-shirt which stretched alarmingly as the gap between us widened. The seams were just about to burst abroad when my clammy fingers lost their grip and the instructor called for a new step. I fear the shirt was relegated to become scrubbing rags the next day. Somehow, I made it to the end of the class. As the others dispersed the instructor came over to me and, with a look of grave concern, asked again “are you okay?” Had it been in this day of cell phones, she would already have called ahead for an emergency response team. I assured her that I would survive and fled the building trailing a cloud of steam as I hit the sub-zero winter air. I never went back.

Some years later I took out a gym membership (thanks for the encouragement Alissa, sorry it didn’t work out!) I chose a Nubody’s which was kind of on my way home from work.  I beat my previous exercise record by participating at that site for a full two sessions – again, it just wasn’t my style. I chose the treadmill for my work-out (I was still able to run at this point) and as I looked out over the room I felt like an escapee from the fat farm next to all the shapely young people in spandex which more than adequately defined their, often unnatural appearing, musculature. There was more flesh than fabric to be seen. I watched one middle aged fellow: he did a series of muscle flexes as enrapt, he did mirror checks from several angles. His look showed that he approved of what he saw.He spied an attractive young female approaching, and squat and did a dead-lift of a barbell equivalent to three times his body weight. He wasn’t so attractive then, with his teeth in a grimace like that of a National Geographic neolithic man recently unearthed from the clay, and a blue fire-hose sized vein threatening to burst as it pulsated in his forehead, giving forth a grunt, the sound of which evoked the cries of the poor mortals being stretched on the racks in Tudor times. He couldn’t tell, of course, how awful he looked because his eyes were squeezed tightly shut to keep his eyeballs from popping.  The weight dropped back to its rack with a clang and as soon as his vision returned he did a head swivel to scan the room for admirers. I mentally rolled my eyes as I jogged along at a speed which could only be marginally considered running. (I believe that running requires that both feet be airborne at the same time) My eyes settled on a ‘spin’ group whose legs were whirring so fast you could only see blurred strands of colour where their socks and shoes should be. Their sweat formed pools on the floor and their eyes had the desperate look of a faller who was clinging to the precipice by his last fingernail. When the leader called “finished” they hopped off their bikes, all smiles without a hint of wobble in their legs. Amazing. I felt like an octogenarian at a singles resort.

I later switched to a ladies only gym where it was a little less competitive. Even so, my blood pressure continued to rise alarmingly, not from physical exertion, but from competition for machines. I ran with a fierceness, almost a frenzy, typical of the Parsons clan.  My anxiety would start to increase as I counted down my last minutes on the treadmill, eyeing the rowing machine which I wished to use next. It was tantalizing to see it occupied and I would glare at the back of the head of any girl using it, willing her to pull a muscle or develop urinary urgency and have to make a sudden dash for the facilities. If she wan’t finished by the time I dismounted the treadmill I would have to kill time on the weight circuit and there I was often embarrassed by not being able to complete a full ten repetitions with the lowest of the low resistance. It went right against my competitive nature.

 I only once attended a group activity at that gym. I thought the yoga class would be relaxing and restorative so I signed up. It was led by an animated young duckie of a girl just barely out of a jolly jumper. She was more interested in ‘toning’ than ‘contemplating’ and by the third downward dog pose I was seeing our complete galaxy of stars  and a good number of ones from Beverly Hills too. I had a pounding headache and was desperately trying not to throw up my Gatorade. Leaving her post, Duckie walked to my mat at the back of the room and asked “are you okay?” I nodded yes, setting the stars off in  a fresh counterclockwise spin, as I felt, not saw, the glares of my exercise mates whose limbs were quivering as they were stuck in the awkward pose until Duckie released them. I spent the remainder of the class lying flat on my back recovering my equilibrium and reviewing in my head the five signs of  a stroke. At the end of the class I fled the building in disgrace.

    But now, all is good. For Christmas Santa brought me a Wii complete with balance board (he apparently wasn’t using it himself).Joking aside,  I had been using a Wii Fit at work for balance retraining with brain injured clients and found it to be the most effective exercise device I have used in my career. Now I have my own and would I be jinxing it by stating too early in the game that I love it?

I was amused to find that after setting up our profiles, Lance and I had, but for gender, hairstyle and glasses style, built almost exactly the same Mii (the caricature which represents you on the screen). Our Miis both show a wry/perplexed expression which kind of says “okay, but it might not go so well”. My daughter later asked us “why, when you could be any character in the universe would you want to choose your  own likeness?” Why indeed.

I have no secrets from my Wii. It knows my height, my weight, how often I exercise, and how well balanced I am. It is a tad judgemental as it sighs impatiently every time I step on the platform and goes on to tell me that I am over-weight, even borderline obese. What I didn’t know about myself was that I am so competitive. We bought the device used and the owners neglected to clear their activity record. I have a vision of “Steph” as a young Olympian who always exceeds expectations. Now I am determined to beat her in all she has tried which is not really that big a deal as she apparently surrendered after attempting most exercises only once. Yes, the Wii is my friend and my virtual personal trainer pushes me far harder than I would ever consider pushing myself. Sometimes she does go a bit too far: once, my face was down doing the plank, my forearms shaking and my brain inventing rivals to the best Cape Breton swear words, my sweaty palms slipping slowly off the platform and my toes slowing sliding down the yoga mat and under the couch with the stray cheerios and pen tops but I was proud as punch as I persevered. Then she had to go and instruct me in her syrupy sweet voice, “now cross your right leg over your left and reach for the ceiling with your left hand.” I saw Lance do a double take and his eyebrows shoot up as I shrieked “It’s all right for you, you skinny bitch”. (No, I’m not taking performance enhancing drugs tho I hear they can have the same effect).

   So Miss Virtual Personal Trainer, I am okay. Downward dogs be damned – with the Wii I can choose not to do any of those, not even a half one, ever, but hula hoop or lunges, bring them on. I am thinking right now that Oprah might have been wrong in saying “there’s no easy way out. If there were I would have bought it and believe me, it would have been one of my favorite things” but I am taking bets on how long before I flee the building this time.

(c) Judy Parsons 2013