Today I am beginning week four of my program. My body is under going subtle changes. My back and legs are far more limber. It is much easier for me to tie my shoes. Now I practically bound up the stairs of my house, while a month ago I had to drag myself up and was breathless at the top. Although I still prefer the water, I have worked up to a mile at a time walking on the track.
Along with the capacity to exercise, I am also learning patience, which is definitely not one of my strong points. Last week, for example, I came down with a virus and was sidelined for four days. Fortunately two of the days were Saturday and Sunday, which are my days off. But on Monday and Tuesday, I pretty much stuck to the couch daydreaming and napping. Being sick while retired is really a lot nicer than while working. If this virus had struck during my working life, I would have gone into the office anyway, prolonging the bug and probably infecting my colleagues. Instead, this time I dozed my way through it, patiently allowing my body to deal with the pathogen at its own pace.
The lazy couch time reminded of the days during my childhood when I was allowed to stay home alone when I was sick, while my mother worked in town and my dad worked on our ranch nearby. I was never lonely and enjoyed having the house to myself. My favorite solitary game was to pretend I was a shopkeeper, selling my mother's many pieces of fine china and Wedgwood to imaginary customers. After showing them around the built-in hutches in our dining room, I would unstick the pieces they selected from the shelves (my mother never dusted so things were pretty grimy), wash them, wrap them in newspaper and put them in grocery bags. I would continue this until mid afternoon, when I would unpack everything and put it back on the shelves. Strangely, I never once broke a single piece.
It took a few days after I got over my illness to get my strength and stamina back. On the first day back I did only one exercise block, then two and on the third day, finally the full set of four. This took a lot of patience, but I am slowly learning to trust my body, rather than to fight with it. Perhaps the most remarkable change is that I now look forward to exercise, at least most of the time. I am excited about what I can accomplish during the next two weeks before I leave for vacation. I plan to intensify some blocks. I may even attempt to jog for the first time!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Pleasant Distractions
The past few days it has been difficult sticking to my exercise regime. My daughter has been here, visiting from the opposite coast with three of my grandchildren. Their four cousins, who live nearby me, are besotted with the visitors and have spent most of the past four days and some nights here too. We had a great July 4th cook-out, with just the immediate family (18 people including the live-in mothers of my sons-in laws, Alicia and Jenny, the super sweet and competent au'pair. ) And then on July 5 my daughters organized a retirement party for me with fifty members of my extended family and a few of my dearest friends.
This huge extended family is a surprise. My father was an orphan and for most of his life had no older, living relatives. I had four first cousins on my mother's side, but they lived far away. I yearned for the extended families of the neighboring farm kids, but when I finally did get a chance to visit my cousin he grossed me out by throwing green mashed potatoes made by his schizophrenic mother or possibly my eccentric uncle, who was the first person I ever knew who cooked for his dog. My dad, and each of the succeeding generations, bucked the trend of declining birth-rates in industrialized countries, by marrying early and often, and creating large numbers of children with each union.
I do love the intimate chaos of my current family parties -- as long as they don't last too long. Inevitably there is a sour note, because I just can't keep from going crazy over my grandchildren and irritating my husband and sons-in-laws (and possibly others who are too polite to say so)by failing to set limits and catering to their every wish. I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on my oldest grandson. When he was born, my two auntie daughters and I kept searching for the right way to describe him. We tied "really cute," "amazingly cute," and "unbelievably cute," but these failed to describe his appeal, which was so intense it caused me to have a physical heartache. We finally hit on "unbearably cute." And now all seven are like this. It's just too much for me to take in at times.
So between three meals a day for this brood, two parties, and innumerable cups of juice, ice-cream treats, and band aids, it was hard to exercise. Stretching and floor exercises were out because they literally ran circles around me tripping on my limbs and using my protruding stomach as a trampoline. They also kept letting our two black labs into the room, so I was also covered with dog saliva.
My salvation was the swimming pool where, under the supervision of Jenny, my daughter and my husband, I was interrupted only ten times or so, as I did my water walking, lap swimming, and water stretching. I also counted as walking blocks trips to the super market and the natural history museum. So everyday except my my off days (Saturday and Sunday) I did my required four blocks. This might have made me feel virtuous were it not for the two cupcakes, three slices of wonderful retirement cake (a gorgeous almond cake with raspberry filling from the best cake bakery in town), and five peanut butter cookies that I have consumed over the past four days. If I am not in a diabetic coma tomorrow, I must eat very lightly and go to the track.
This huge extended family is a surprise. My father was an orphan and for most of his life had no older, living relatives. I had four first cousins on my mother's side, but they lived far away. I yearned for the extended families of the neighboring farm kids, but when I finally did get a chance to visit my cousin he grossed me out by throwing green mashed potatoes made by his schizophrenic mother or possibly my eccentric uncle, who was the first person I ever knew who cooked for his dog. My dad, and each of the succeeding generations, bucked the trend of declining birth-rates in industrialized countries, by marrying early and often, and creating large numbers of children with each union.
I do love the intimate chaos of my current family parties -- as long as they don't last too long. Inevitably there is a sour note, because I just can't keep from going crazy over my grandchildren and irritating my husband and sons-in-laws (and possibly others who are too polite to say so)by failing to set limits and catering to their every wish. I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on my oldest grandson. When he was born, my two auntie daughters and I kept searching for the right way to describe him. We tied "really cute," "amazingly cute," and "unbelievably cute," but these failed to describe his appeal, which was so intense it caused me to have a physical heartache. We finally hit on "unbearably cute." And now all seven are like this. It's just too much for me to take in at times.
So between three meals a day for this brood, two parties, and innumerable cups of juice, ice-cream treats, and band aids, it was hard to exercise. Stretching and floor exercises were out because they literally ran circles around me tripping on my limbs and using my protruding stomach as a trampoline. They also kept letting our two black labs into the room, so I was also covered with dog saliva.
My salvation was the swimming pool where, under the supervision of Jenny, my daughter and my husband, I was interrupted only ten times or so, as I did my water walking, lap swimming, and water stretching. I also counted as walking blocks trips to the super market and the natural history museum. So everyday except my my off days (Saturday and Sunday) I did my required four blocks. This might have made me feel virtuous were it not for the two cupcakes, three slices of wonderful retirement cake (a gorgeous almond cake with raspberry filling from the best cake bakery in town), and five peanut butter cookies that I have consumed over the past four days. If I am not in a diabetic coma tomorrow, I must eat very lightly and go to the track.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Sense of Accomplishment
Today is Friday and I have completed the first week of my new program. I feel very proud of myself and strangely my body already feels different. I have been doing a lot of stretching and I feel as if I have elongated my backbone by adding air between the vertebrae. I seem to be sitting up straighter. The tension from between my shoulders is gone. I can see muscle definition in my forearms.
I have tried a number of activities this week, but my favorite is walking in the swimming pool. I love the sensation of the water surrounding me and supporting my weight. The pools where I exercise are neighborhood pools. One is the pool where four of my seven grandchildren swim on the summer team. I am dedicated to this swim team to the point of fanaticism. The summer meets are fun because I know all the families and can cheer for all the kids. Last year I even won an award for being the the most supportive fan. While I am walking I can wave to everyone. I am a bit of a celebrity there, not only because of my high-pitched screams during close races, but also because of the exploits of my grandchildren. I don't want to brag (don't believe this for a minute), but my eight year-old grandson has set two team records so far this summer!
The other pool is my neighborhood pool. It it is womb-like because it is protected by small hills and surrounded by trees. I know few people in my neighborhood, so while walking I fall into a trance-like state, not making eye contact, and pulling the warm, velvety, turquoise water toward me with each arm as I stride. I watch the clouds form and disperse in the summer sky. I feel totally happy doing this.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is walking on the track. I have to force myself to leave the house and I already feel tired and crabby by the time I park the car and make my way down the sidewalk and stairs to the field. The track itself is a pleasant. It is soft black asphalt that I wish would smell like the warm tar I loved as a child. But is smells like nothing. So far I walk three-quarters of a mile each time I go. This is exactly 20 minutes worth of exercise -- a "block" in my terminology. By the time I start the third quarter mile, my lower back begins to hurt and I feel anxious that I will be too tired to climb the stairs to the car when I am done. This is completely psychosomatic because today I walked for and hour and a half in the super market, doing a giant grocery shop in preparation for July 4th, and I felt just fine. This hatred of the track does not bode well because someday I will have to spend more time there if I want to reach my goal.
I am not going to worry about that now. Instead I am going to order another pair of running shorts and smugly enjoy my new spine.
I have tried a number of activities this week, but my favorite is walking in the swimming pool. I love the sensation of the water surrounding me and supporting my weight. The pools where I exercise are neighborhood pools. One is the pool where four of my seven grandchildren swim on the summer team. I am dedicated to this swim team to the point of fanaticism. The summer meets are fun because I know all the families and can cheer for all the kids. Last year I even won an award for being the the most supportive fan. While I am walking I can wave to everyone. I am a bit of a celebrity there, not only because of my high-pitched screams during close races, but also because of the exploits of my grandchildren. I don't want to brag (don't believe this for a minute), but my eight year-old grandson has set two team records so far this summer!
The other pool is my neighborhood pool. It it is womb-like because it is protected by small hills and surrounded by trees. I know few people in my neighborhood, so while walking I fall into a trance-like state, not making eye contact, and pulling the warm, velvety, turquoise water toward me with each arm as I stride. I watch the clouds form and disperse in the summer sky. I feel totally happy doing this.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is walking on the track. I have to force myself to leave the house and I already feel tired and crabby by the time I park the car and make my way down the sidewalk and stairs to the field. The track itself is a pleasant. It is soft black asphalt that I wish would smell like the warm tar I loved as a child. But is smells like nothing. So far I walk three-quarters of a mile each time I go. This is exactly 20 minutes worth of exercise -- a "block" in my terminology. By the time I start the third quarter mile, my lower back begins to hurt and I feel anxious that I will be too tired to climb the stairs to the car when I am done. This is completely psychosomatic because today I walked for and hour and a half in the super market, doing a giant grocery shop in preparation for July 4th, and I felt just fine. This hatred of the track does not bode well because someday I will have to spend more time there if I want to reach my goal.
I am not going to worry about that now. Instead I am going to order another pair of running shorts and smugly enjoy my new spine.
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