Yeah, I Did Richard Simmons

As my mother's body weakened and atrophied I felt a need to up my present exercise routine. I have always been an exerciser. When I was 16 years old I fell in love with gym class. I had no interest in competitive sports. But I loved the organized exercises: the jumping jacks, the sit-ups, the arm twirls so much that I would duplicate them on the cold black marble floor of our family bathroom. Of course, I locked the door. As a college student I cherished my small pamphlet from the U.S. Air Force Academy showing the necessary repetitions to keep all muscle groups strong and limber. I checked myself out of all my gym classes before I flunked unbeknownst to my parents. On the first day of tennis class I remarked to another student as I entered the court and saw the back of our tennis teacher, "Oh, I thought this class was being taught by a woman." The teacher turned and looked me straight in the eye and yes, she was a woman. I swear I didn't have a chance after that. As a young mother and married to a stereo salesman we were the first on our block to own the latest state-of-the-art equipment and this included a huge bulky box that could record television shows. Ah yes, exercise had found itself to the little screen. Aerobic shows in the early 70's were quite different than the present ones. The girls wore no shoes and a great deal of the exercise routine was performed on the floor to music that was similar to a ballet sequence. Their leotards were cut low in front and high at the thighs and their faces held expressions found in soft porno films. I always thought they were just entertainment for old men who were sitting around the house and had nothing to do at 2:00 in the afternoon. I dutifully recorded the hour-long shows and faithfully followed the girls. And then suddenly, exercise was everywhere. Everybody who was anybody had a VHS tape with their special formula for movement and weight loss. Say what you will about Richard Simmons he did get the obese and near-obese off the couch and into the exercise class. Up until then exercise shows featured only super models and guys with scary looking abs doing the reps. Now overweight people could wear leotards and sweat to the oldies. And Richard was encouraging. So, yes, I recorded Richard. The music was better than the schmaltzy ballet stuff. And since that time I always have CDs close at hand that include weight lifting and using a toning band. Upper body strength for women has been undervalued for a long time. If you're a woman: GET SOME. I recommend it.
Sigh. So yes, I get carried away on the exercise topic. Poor little Mom was curling into herself as she sat in her chair and watched the birds on the deck. There were days when her muscles would spasm and she could barely walk. A year ago she was still walking the river walk with her little bottle of water. There were several benches along the way so she could rest. She and Dad were great walkers. They scaled mountains in Colorado and the hills and valleys of Mines of Spain and Swiss Valley here in town.
I'm not sure why I am making my body work so hard these days. The exercise clears my mind somewhat and keeps the bad thoughts at bay. As the eldest daughter I identify closely with my mother. I would help her dress and realize how parts of her body resembled my own. And that is a fearful thing seeing your body in your mother and seeing what disease and inactivity was doing to it. After she died it was good to touch her body, hold her in my arms and not have her flinch or cry out in pain.

Wearing Sadness Like a Soft, Old Sweater

I am wearing my sadness like a soft old sweater. Grief is not what I thought it would be. It is like slowly walking through deep water. The world presses around me like the layers of water and I feel as if soft bunting is wrapped around me, like a cocoon. It is between me and the world and it acts like a filter. Inconsiderate motorists no longer annoy me. My messy house is not longer a concern. Whether I eat or not seems of secondary importance. I continue to exercise as it provides some relief for my sluggish brain. I realize I have a long journey ahead of me with many sharp stones in the road. At the drug store picking out cards for showers and looking for Purell hand sanitizer with aloe. I used the last of it in my car before consuming my burrito. It smelled so clean and fresh - a smell that I associated with my mother and I knew I had to buy more. Now. I find the shower cards after a long time searching. I instinctively reach for a birthday card that has purple pansies on it. Mom likes those little flowers and many things I have bought for her have those damn pansies on them and I now can't buy them along with so many other things and I know I will still keep reaching for them in stores and boutiques because that is what I do. I buy cute little stupid things for my mother and now I can't. So as if this blanket of grief is not enough I will need to retrain myself to not let objects and smells and cards remind me of my mother. I need to start thinking differently and reacting differently and I don't know how to do this.

You don't look as old as you think you are

A pudgy boy about nine or ten years old splashes over to me at the pool and flashes a grin. He says, "You don't look as old as you think you are." Another grin. Whoa! What is this? Now I am a woman like so many others who was never in love with her body. Oh, there were a few brief instances in the life where the top of my body matched the bottom and there were no extra jiggles and creases. But now I have let my hair go to its intended mostly salt and pepper look and I stopped with the make-up a long time ago - it just settles into the wrinkles. I do hold onto my one European custom - red, red lipstick. Picture Sophia Loren leaning over a balcony in Greece: her white peasant blouse falling off one of her perfect brown shoulders, her black hair cascading down her back, and her mouth, half-open, inviting and red, red, red. Sounds like the cover of one of my mother's romance novels. As they say, the more flesh exposed on the cover, the racier the novel. Mom would read these books supplied by her sister but she rarely got through one. She read an eclectic assortment of literature: the local sports page, Garrison Keillor columns, a variety of women's magazines and cooking journals and Vanity Fair. She loved articles about the rich tycoons who were embezzling and then discovered and then fallen from their lofty, wealthy perches. She liked gossip, but mostly the sophisticated kind.
Anyway, I may need to frequent this north end pool more often. I usually visit the west end pool so I need not worry about somebody lifting my Curious George change purse from my rolled-up towel.