Fifty Shades of Silver

Life and wife have compelled me to become more physically fit. Two back surgeries and arthritis in the spine have slowed me down a bit, so I’ve joined a gym so I can participate in a senior citizen exercise class.
Silver Sneakers®, they call the program and lest you be fooled by the name, this is not a gathering of drooling crones. It is a room full of vibrant (mostly female) senior citizens who have, with varying degrees of expertise, the ability to “whip my butt” on a regular basis. We are led by the ever-lovely Freida.
There are a couple of guys in the class. I’d be willing to bet they are married. Most of them are around my age. Males are definitely in the minority. I figure that is because women live longer than men. Men die younger so they don’t have to attend exercise classes.
My back surgeon has told me I’m not supposed to bend, lift or twist. That BLT acronym stays right in the front of my mind. Not only does it eliminate about half of the exercises we’re supposed to do, it reminds me that I’d really like a BLT for lunch.
While BLT limits my range, I have another problem: I’m convinced I was born without a core. I wish I could find mine, but I think it must have been an accident at birth. “Nocoreatall syndrome” they call it around the delivery room.
So I do the “lite” version. I avoid the dreaded BLT movements and try to keep moving so no one will notice. There are others in the class who don’t do everything. Freida even tells us only to do what we feel like we can do. (Usually I feel like going home to eat a BLT, but I don’t think that is an option.) She’s trying to minimize the use of the defibrillator during excessive bending, lifting and twisting.
I think I’m getting the hang of it, but there have been those moments when I’m confused. The first time the instructor said, “Grab your balls!” I was somewhat taken aback. Thankfully, I quickly learned she was talking about the rubber balls that everyone in the classroom had except yours truly. I was told by one of the young ladies that I am responsible for my own balls and that I need to put them in the big box over in the corner when I’m finished. Thank you ma’am.
Also, I’m really uncomfortable with the emphasis on bladder control. I had no problems in that area until I was forced to drink water between every set. Keep in mind that I usually have a pot of coffee before my exercise class. I sure don’t need any more liquids in my body. I notice several of the ladies take a toilet break during the one hour session. That is because 1. We talk too much about bladder control, and 2. We drink way more water than we need. It is simply too early in the morning to drink anything but coffee. By the time I leave the classroom, I am floating.
Today the unthinkable happened. I was late to class and the only available space was at the back of the room. That in itself is not so bad but I was situated next to a young lady who had come as member’s guest. It is hard enough keeping up with the program if I’m among my aging peers, but this 16ish young lady had obviously been doing some crunches on her own. She possessed not an ounce of body fat, and she moved like a ballerina…not that I was looking.
Every stupid, blundering move I made was matched with the grace and poise of her youth. Every time I lost my balance, she made some spectacular move. Every time I got out of sync with the rest of the class she was spot on. I even imagined I had an acne pimple growing on my nose. I was stressed.
As the tension mounted, I began to smell my underarms. Suddenly, it grew warm in the room. I smelled like the locker room at a pig parlor. A fan was spreading my body odor throughout the room. Right Guard ®, don’t fail me now! I had a long ten minutes to go, but held my arms close to my body and made the best of it.
At the end of the hour, the lights are dimmed. This is my favorite part. It is the cool down period and is as relaxing and fulfilling as the warm-up is exhausting. This quiet dimly-lit time restores me and makes my legs quit cramping. Then they start praying.
It is called the Serenity Prayer and it truly is heartwarming, but I’m an Episcopalian. Normally, most of us don’t pray in public and we certainly don’t pray anything extemporaneously. I need something to read…a prayer book, or a church bulletin. So I sit in silence, not wanting to make a mistake that could be heard.
When the prayer is over, the lights come on, the balls and weights are put away and I check my pulse to see if I am among the quick or the dead.
Having survived, I think I’ll go for just one more cup of coffee…and maybe a BLT.