Doctor M looked at his clipboard, swallowed and looked up to meet my eyes. His lavender shirt was crisp and his business tie totally made the most of his blue eyes. He said, as neutrally as possible, “and it would help if you could lose some weight.”
Is this the first time that I was made aware of my possessing excess weight? What do you think, really?
“I hadn’t noticed, doctor, thank you so much for bringing it to my attention. I’d been wondering what that caboose was that kept following me everywhere I went for the past 30 years. Finally, I know, and I totally appreciate your filling me in- that was awesome!”
Not so much. I hauled my robust self out the door, his voice challenging in my ears. There are precious few diets that I had not tried and failed at, rebounding to my ongoing pudgy self after 6 or 8 weeks? I’m nothing if not flexible. Diets, everyone tells you, do not work. But they fail to tell you what does work, apparently, because everyone stays fluffy, regardless of hype and a book or magazine article of the month on some version of slimming oneself. It can’t be that hard, I know. I agree.
But it’s that hard.
Any whining on my part would be unfair. I hold my head up, some days. I have been working out, although I haven’t always. Several years ago, I presented my knees to an orthopedic surgeon for the precise purpose of substituting factory models for aftermarket equipment in a process that jumbled together three of the worst qualities rolling together into one event extravagant cost, long lasting pain, and inferior second class technology when compared to the ones I had at birth.
Who could resist a package like that? But, when I could get mobile again, I realized how precious walking was, just in time to have some foot surgery. Eventually, I came to regard the ability to move as a gift of great consequence.
So, I try to work out a few times a week, and to walk occasionally, although not nearly enough for my own good health. But, I like to attend a class, and put the time into a routine I can plan on. Often, when I want to walk, I find myself getting busy, and am unable to break free, then excuse myself until its too late to go, and I go back to my book or my writing, having patted myself on the back for my good intentions.
My class, for a couple of years now, has been a class that is frequented by a lot of senior people, both men and women, mixed ages somewhere between 52 and 92. It is a nice class, and occasionally we have lunch, and also sometimes we send cards, and keep in touch. Friendships have developed between some as well.
Currently, ‘S’ is our Wednesday instructor. She sets a pace that is good for me, and others too. She herself hasn’t got one place on her body that jiggles, just for your information. None. I have looked in awe, and she tells me that it is the result of the past twenty years of working out. She has powerful arms, a solid bum, strong legs, and variegated cornrows. She also owns a smile that should be patented, as when she is delighted, her grin shines out of her dark sable skin like the sunshine coming through at noon from between the clouds.
I attend that class nearly as much to see her smile as for the exercise and the sound track I can sing along with. I can do almost anything with the right music, and when the play list is good. I can do much more to the tune of the old songs, the ones that had such memorable words as ‘do wa, ditty, ditty-dum ditty do’ and ‘It’s my Party and I’ll cry if I want to’, or even some of the Mack the Knife. Killer stuff!
This morning ‘S’ was leading the class, the second one of the day for her. The first one looks like an Indian swami practice. The participants all sway on the floor mashing sticks to and fro to a rhythm and fast beat.
She has been hobbling a little for the past few weeks, and letting us get off easier than I like, because she herself cannot do much. She is limping. I miss her leading from her position at the head of the room, yelling, singing and laughing at our comments when we complain, needling us into trying a little harder to move our Gluteus Maximus’s.
She took her place, before our class began, and set herself out a chair, no weights, and no other equipment. Oh-oh. Change. There is change afoot and I don’t like it particularly. The only changes I approve of are the ones I myself initiate, really. Ahead of me, one was happening. We clustered in little groups, whispering.
“What is wrong with ‘S ‘…?
“What is going on?
“Is ‘S’ okay?
She can probably hear us, because although she is blind, her hearing is excellent. But, she says nothing.
Then we noticed. Our exercise instructor was in a leg brace. Torn meniscus, and out of commission for six weeks was the report. Perhaps a new knee.
“I really need to work” she explained unapologetically, “so I’m here.” Incongruity reigns supreme in this room, as one old grey-haired,(occasionally maroon), blind, black lady on crutches tries to lead an old grey haired class of men and women into multiple exercises by description only, occasionally asking out loud, “Are they smiling? Are they doin it?”
We always say yes, and keep counting our moves.
So there we poised, at our chairs, our weights, and equipment tidily tucked underneath, wondering how this would go. All of my usual excuses for not attending suddenly become clear for the self-indulgence they are. I’m tired. I’m busy, it’s too cold, it’s too hot, ad nauseum.
‘S’ stood up, and said. “ I’ll have this brace for six weeks if I’m lucky, but, “ she beamed that 100 watt smile “ you’re not off the hook. I’ll still be here, just sitting down. You can do it, and you are awesome.”
An hour later, we put away our equipment and strolled back to our lives. No complaining. ‘S’ is our champion, our quiet example for the day. She is our instructor, our crippled, gray-haired, macro-degenerated, and legally blind, solid example of determination and grit. I don’t know if I am any more fit, but I can’t think of where I will get a better role model. Not your ordinary instructor, but maybe she’s just right. We can do it, together.