A Cautionary Tale about Aging

One of the weirdest things about looking in a mirror after about thirty is that I still see that fresh-faced kid of my High School photographs.  Maybe it's the Pollyanna in me coming out, but the wrinkles and the decidedly deeper smile indentions and the zit scar from days of yore just don't really register.

But when I'm faced with an actual picture of my forty-five year old self?  I see all the imperfections and age come flying off the glossy 5x7.

My body, unlike my face, is easier to see age on.  No picture required. 

It's been through a lot in the last twenty-five or so years:  three pregnancies/births, numerous pounds come and gone, gravity, breastfeeding, too much drinking.  It is, honestly, surprising that everything on my body isn't just flat to the floor and unable to get up.

So, when I lost the entire month of May to a crazy schedule and summer with the kids started and I sacrificed the gym for three months in a row?  My body looked a little more like gravity loved it and less like it had been to the gym.  Surprise, surprise.

A couple of weeks ago, my workout partner, whose had the same "school's over" predicament, suggested we try a little class in the evening.  Nothing daunting like Core Kickboxing or Intermediate Boot Camp.  The simplistic sounding Body Flow.

This class was billed as a "yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi workout (that) builds flexibility and strength and leaves you feeling centered and calm."  I have to admit, after leaving class for the first time last week, both of us couldn't stop yawning.  Thinking it might be a fluke, I paid close attention to my reaction this past Monday;  same thing--tons of yawning and a real desire to teleport directly to bed.

Then came Tuesday morning.  And a perfect storm of masochistic torture that I'm still getting over on Thursday.

See, on Monday morning I decided to give up my daily coffee habit.  My four-cup habit.  My "when I run out of coffee in the house, I'll finally quit" habit.*

So, by mid-day, I was a little draggy.  But, I managed to make it to class and worked extra hard through all the moves that I was learning the previous Monday.  I even got into frog pose, hands on floor, knees on bent elbows, for about .000005 seconds.  But, I did it!!!

When I woke up Tuesday morning, my head felt like an anvil to someones iron working hammer.  My stomach was bloated and I was belching and tooting like a little kid who just tried broccoli for the first time.  Then my throat got a little sore and my eyes felt like they were being attacked by sand monsters.  Since I hadn't had a drink in too long to remember, I thought "Shoot.  I'm coming down with something." 

Then, I remembered the less than stellar week I had had with my eating, which culminated in my downing about a quarter of a bag of dark chocolate chips on Sunday night.

Let's just say that the thing that makes me move was absent when the thing that stops me dead in my tracks was added.  Translation?  No coffee + too much chocolate = constipation.  That explained the stomach.  And, quite possibly, the headache.

I made dinner for the family and went to bed at 5pm.

Wednesday wasn't much better.  I spent the day drinking copious amounts of water and downed an entire box of dates, hoping for movement.  By nightfall, I could have eaten an ox, including the horns and tail.  So, I ventured into "real food" territory for the first time and had a little frittata and salad.

Again, I went to bed at 5pm.  And that is when the muscles in my neck, upper shoulders, and lower back all decided to tell me a little bit about themselves.  They were cranky, pissed, and overused, they seemed to communicate.

And that's when I understood that almost the entire state of my body was due to a Body Flow class that collided with better health habits and created the worst two days of my life.

The hypochondriac in me really thought I might have some dread disease.  The realist in me, looking backward with perfect vision now sees the truth:

1.  Too much chocolate is just too much for any body over a certain age.  Obviously, I've passed that mark.

2.  Giving up coffee cold turkey is as close to suicide as you can get without actually dying.  You just wish you did.

3.  Trying one of the hardest yoga moves I've ever tried or seen tried or wished I tried is just plain stupid.  My body wasn't designed to go into some positions and that is, obviously, one of them.

4.  The best remedy for over sore muscles, besides a nice massage by Mike, is the TENS machine my chiropractor hooked my up with.  And to never, ever, ever again try the frog pose or anything that resembles it.

Thursday mid-day has arrived.  My abs look a little more toned thanks to the crunches from the class and the water/date diet.  My headache and sore throat have disappeared and my eyes are themselves again.  My lower back has made a truce with the rest of my body.

But my shoulders and neck?  They are on a tear.  They won't give up.  I fear that, come Monday, they'll finally feel better.  And, delusionally, I'll enter that class and think "Shoot.  That was a fluke."

So I beg you, dear readers, and will reward you handsomely, to please follow me on Monday and knock my silly butt over if I even attempt frog pose.  Or get too low on the airplane pose.  Or try to do the crunches with my hands to my sides.

Unfortunately, the mind is willing, but the body is no.longer.able.    




*Since I had about five pounds of coffee in the house, I wasn't the least bit worried about quitting before Christmas.