We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
When I was a young girl, I performed jumping jacks along with the enthusiastic exercise guru, Jack LaLanne. He was a hunk of a man on the black and white TV screen. I’d dutifully negotiate a dozen jumps before hitting the deck for some sit-ups. My mother would throw a brief glance, a that’s – nice – dear type of look, my way; she was pleased that her adolescent daughter was showing an interest in physical fitness. This calisthenic session lasted approximately five minutes, because my attention span was underdeveloped like my shape. Now that I’m well into my sixth decade of life, my attention has turned to “working out”. I’ve joined a club that requires a monthly membership fee. That alone ignites my desire to get moving. I’m happy to say that this is not even a half-arsed attempt. Not only have I discovered when I lend an occasional helping hand in the barn, I don’t lift the muck bucket like I did in years past, and I vaguely remember my doctor uttering the word, cholesterol. Time to get serious and a new shape. I look forward to my one hour of resistance sets, two times a week, and an hour of yoga once a week. Tomorrow marks a year older but newer girl. Happy Birthday to me.
my trainer 🙂