Mother opens one sleepy eye as I grab my coat: “Are you going to Therapy”?
Grinning at her, I forget that this is the first day for the ladies’ “strength and flexibility” training upstairs, that I promised I'd join.
Today, Husband Tweedle declines the invitation to join us, explaining, “I have two bellies; you ladies only have one.” He stays downstairs on the treadmill and bike, …and tries some free weights on his own, he tells me later, …before reconsidering...
Huge wall-to-wall mirrors span the far wall of the upstairs room. . . (like a nightmare image of my childhood ballet studio, …but who can that Tweedle be, and what have you done with my 12-yr-old body?) I choose the back corner behind as many other ladies as possible.
We are greeted warmly by the spritely trainer who first enrolled us in the gym, the one who looked us over and still dared to hope... Turning on the 60’s rock ‘n’ roll tape, she urges us to choose a giant inflated beach ball (which, on catching a glimpse of myself in the cruel mirrors, I somewhat resemble)...
...also a little blue mat...and hand weights from a variety of sizes laid out at the front of the room, in a string of boxes according to size ...from 1 lb . to 10 lbs. or more? ...don’t have the nerve to look that direction...
One lovely, trim athlete, 82, lugs 8-lb. dumbbells to her mat, in triumph. It looks like triumph, compared to my retreat to the wimpy boxes. I am sorely tempted to grab the 1 lb. weights, which resemble Tootsie Rolls, but to avoid total humiliation on this, my first day, grab the 3-lb.-ers, which I could lift, ...at least at the beginning of the session.
Throughout the series of bends, lifts, stretches, ...I find I still have a couple of usable body parts...but the rest, clearly on the blink, began to rebel. I keep my eyes off the most energetic elder athlete in the room, the 82-yr.-old, who makes me feel 802.
Later, the cheerful trainer reminds me to stretch again tonight because I might feel sore. Seriously?
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