new age, new me

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

Emily Dickinson

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 🙂

i feel good

I’d love to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair.       ~Bette Davis

It might appear that whatever I’m reading is making my hair stand up on end.  It might appear I’m having a bad hair day or that I just don’t care about my appearance.  Actually, it’s none of these.  I do care about my appearance, but my hair has a mind of its own, regardless of time spent styling with hair paste and finishing spray.  I have come to accept this fact and appreciate a new sense of freedom.  What you see is what you get.  And, I feel good.

I had an awkward moment the other day.  Deciding I needed to get in shape, I stopped at the local exercise gym.  The owner was kind enough to discuss the classes and also suggested the “silver sneaker” group.  Silver sneakers?  That sounded fun until I discovered they’re old people bussed in from the senior center. Could it be my hair?