To exercise or not? That is my question.

The fifties are a tricky age.  Mentally, I feel like I’m still eighteen years old, but recently, my body has begun a little protest of its own. My left hip has grown noticeably weaker, and I move slower; things sag, and I feel like I am dragging myself around.

My son conscientiously works out and eats cautiously, most of the time.  He has not come right out and said, “Look, Mom.  You move like a snail.  You are overweight.  Why are you limping?  Why are you sitting around all the time?  You should get your butt out of the chair and work out.”  He has never said that, but I know what he is thinking. I just know.

For my birthday, my son, dear boy, signed me up for a gym membership that I pay for.  To be fair, he did gently coerce me in the direction of the gym, but he signed my name on the dotted line.  Now, off to the gym I must go since I am paying for the membership.

The first visit was a classic.  As soon as the receptionist saw that I was a new member, she flagged down the personal training manager and told this young man to give me an assessment.  Seriously, I need a twenty-something year-old boy to give an assessment of my fifty-year old post-menopausal formerly pear-shaped, now apple-shaped body?

To say the least, I was uncooperative. I had to explain to Mr. Twenty-something that my goals did not involve looking like Barbie. His eyebrows raised slightly and his mouth made a little o.

This poor guy, whom I will call Joe, walked me to the personal training area where he set up a step that had to be twelve inches high.  To me that may have well been two stories high. He handed me two five pound dumbbells and told me to step up and down for three minutes.  I looked at him askance.  By the time I had reached the two-and-a-half minute mark, I was barely able to catch my breath and the dumbbells were just clearing the step.

Joe, bless his heart, stood by looking at his phone.  Maybe he was playing a game or maybe he was timing me, but I sure hope he was not snapchatting this assessment to all of his physical trainer buddies. The only form of encouragement that he offered was, “Two more minutes.  One more minute.” Thanks, Joe.You are a real gem.

Joe moved me over to some kind of contraption which had straps attached to handles.  He instructed me to grab the handles and lean back as far as I could and then pull myself forward to a nearly standing position. “Do that ten times,” he said sliding his finger up across the screen of his phone. I looked at him in total shock.  “ Lean back? Are you serious?”  I asked with anxiety.  I took five minutes getting myself in a position where I felt slightly comfortable.  I did take a quick glance around to see if any surveillance cameras were turning in my direction.   Joe, moved several feet away; clearly, he had no intention of being in the way of any damage that might occur should the straps break loose from the steel unit to which they were attached.   This was like a trust fall,  and I saw clearly that I could not trust Joe.

After three minutes of that wonderful series of pull ups, my forearms were screaming for relief.  Joe now decided to give me a squat assessment. He instructed me to lean against the wall and do a series of squats while holding weights. I won’t go into the description of that part of the assessment, but suffice it to say, Joe had had enough assessing.

While Joe attempted to talk me into a personal training plan, I watched the young guy at the next table, who had just completed his assessment, vomiting into the trashcan.   “No thanks, Joe.” I said. “I think I can try this for a while on my own.”

In order to appease my son, I go to the gym almost everyday, and to be honest, my hip has improved, but the rest my ample apple shape remains ample. I am moving a modicum faster, but I will not be ready to run any half-milers any time soon.  I’m just hoping to get out of the gym each day alive.