From City Walker to Granny-on-the-go

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After six weeks in our new home, I’d say most things are good but some things not. I’ll deal with a few “not’s” today.

In my effort to be open to new experiences, I joined my daughter’s fitness center. To my surprise, my husband joined too. Not a problem really, but yesterday we had our initial fitness assessments; his results showed his body age as 59 and mine as 79. He is 75, and I’m 74.

Can you imagine how I feel?

After my assessment, I’d planned to spend the day getting caught up on my computer; Marv had left on errands, so I was looking forward to quiet in our shared study. But, as I was scooting out of the fitness consultant’s office, I heard a voice calling, “Lois. Lois.” Who knew me there?

Of course, my daughter all dressed in workout Spandex ready to do zumba or super abs or boot camp or something. We settled on a walk. “In or out?” she asked.

We’d walked the track inside, so I opted for outside. Well, outside meant around residential blocks that went slowly uphill part of the way. “I’m done,” I said a few times, pausing to catch my breath.

“Done is only in cooking,” she said, parroting her dad.

“Then I’m finished,” I said. Somehow I made it back to the center, wiped out, with thighs burning and lungs shouting. Made sense though because my cardiovascular assessment had showed that I needed to up my oxygenation levels with aerobic activities.

Which is to say that all my walking, always 5-10,000 steps a day, in downtown Chicago did not provide an adequate base for this new life style.

I should have known I had a problem from playing in our area’s pool with my grandkids, ages 5 and 7. They insist I play Monkey in the Middle. When I’m in the middle, I’d be content to stay there, squatting under water in a restful pose, but they command, “Grandma! Stand up. Put your arms up. Jump.”

A moment of rest for me!

A moment of rest for me!

As they play catch over my head, they want me to snatch the ball. Oh, whoever said I wanted to be a good sport?  If I’m not standing up and waving my arms crazily over my head, they implore with their infectious giggles, “Granny! Stand up!” when they know I prefer “Grandma.” Or the five-year-old came out once with “Lois. Lois. Stand up.” As he doubled over with giggles, I had to laugh along; he’d not done that before, so I thought his name-calling quite bright.

So, while I was huffing up the sidewalks near the fitness center with my daughter, I said, “You don’t understand. I’m an old lady. I’m not used to all this activity; I just walked in Chicago. At my own pace. “And,” I added for emphasis, “I didn’t play Monkey in the Middle.”

“Guess you’re just a granny-on-the-go,” she said.

And I felt a blog post coming on.

 

 

 

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