Trying for Perfection: Exercise Boot Camp and Yoga

I guess I’ve been taking a little break. But I’m back, with another letter I wrote to my daughter, Lydia, during the memoir class that didn’t lead to a memoir. Maybe it’ll strike a chord . . .

Dear Lydia:

You’re certainly aware of my deep aversion to and dread of anything relating to retirement specifically and the process of aging generally. You’re also aware of the steps I will take to avoid either process. Old man’s softball followed by the trip to orthopedic urgent care, with the resulting six weeks on crutches. My decision to take tennis lessons at the age of 69, some 30 years after my last match, followed by the trip to the orthopedic surgeon to deal with “tennis shoulder.” My decision to take a handful of adult education classes, followed by my grumpy complaints that the class was filled with old people.

I saw retirement as a black hole. You must be familiar with black holes. They are places in space so incredibly dense, with such a strong gravitational force, that they can eat entire stars, ripping them to dust as they digest them.

To me, retirement and aging were black holes. Looming chasms that would consume any chance at happiness, my sense of purpose, my self-image carefully crafted over decades. Well, maybe not so carefully crafted.

A couple years before my anticipated retirement date I traveled to Puerto Vallarta with a group of Lifetime Fitness members to attend an exercise “Boot Camp.” I was trying to exorcise my demons by pretending that my body and fitness level were as they were in my 40s. Sadly, my pretense was badly at odds with my reality.

My pretense became brittle after a day of several exercise sessions, It was smashed into a thousand pieces as I lumbered up a steep driveway roped to a fellow camper whose job it was to impede my progress. He succeeded admirably. Halfway to the top I stopped, turned to him and croaked: “If you don’t lighten up I swear to god I will make shit up about you and embarrass you by telling everyone my made-up stories at dinner.” I think he knew my threat was hollow. I would be unconscious in my own bed long before dinner.

The thousand pieces of my pretense were then crushed to dust as I staggered up the same steep driveway with a large and, to me, incredibly heavy sandbag perched on each of my shoulders. I know I heard the theme from “Rocky” in the background. I swear I could feel and hear my own heartbeat. The first beat of my atria sounded like the word “I’m . . .” The second beat of my ventricles sounded like the word ” . . . dying.” My vision tunneled. Then I couldn’t see the driveway at all. My brain imagined my body lying in a dim emergency room in a local hospital with a stained sheet covering my face. Like a scene from a bad 50’s movie, a doctor stood over me with a cigar stuffed in the side of his mouth, saying:

“èl esta muertes otro estupido turista Americano.”

When my sight finally returned the trainer who talked me into attending the boot camp told me I should try out the sunrise yoga class the next morning. “It may help with the physical pain you are certainly going to feel. It may even be a salve for your bruised and battered ego after today.”

“But I’ve never taken a yoga class before.” It looks dumb,” I said. And then the real reason: “I’ll look dumb.”

“Just come to class and put your mat behind everyone else,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll do fine.”

I’d noticed the yoga instructor during our trip. He was small in stature, but every muscle in his body stood out, like a series of blown-up balloons attached to each of his bones. He taught yoga at one of the suburban clubs. He was followed everywhere by a clutch of women. They had to be from the same suburban club. They exercised wearing makeup and the latest and sleekest coordinated exercise clothes. chattering at each other, all at the same time. But I will say this: I looked forward to setting my yoga mat behind them. Sorry, Lydia. If that makes you uncomfortable just forget you read it.

We sat facing the ocean. People were humming something. But things started badly. I think we were in the lotus position. Seated, legs crossed in front of us, arms on our legs. Well at least the others were. My hips have never beed supple, and the “march of the dead” of the day before stiffened them to stone. So I sat with my knees pretty much in front of my face, and each time I tried pushing them down, a groan escaped my lips. Finally I just toppled over. Someone chuckled. Then we were supposed to assume some position where one arm pointed to the sea, with the other grasping one leg, pointing toward the resort. Pointing to the sea hurt my shoulder. When I tried pointing my leg behind me I lost my balance and staggered off my mat. You may not believe this, but I think a phrase involving a word sounding a lot like “duck” slid from my mouth like a snake’s tongue. A couple people around me tittered. I’m sure you’re not surprised that I suddenly thought: “Oh, maybe I can work the crowd.” So groans and epithets escaped my mouth as I failed each, to me, impossible position. Once or twice I editorialized: “You’ve got to be shitting me.” A brief reminder from the instructor to “focus.” Disapproving glances from the suburban women.

Suddenly my playfulness turned into real concern. The instructor ordered us all to assume a position that turned us toward the resort. So my yoga mat safely in the back suddenly became front and center. I grabbed my mat and quickly walked to what was now the new back of the class to jeers from some class members. The instructor told us to assume a position where our heads drifted below our waists, and I followed his instructions by saying, in a normal tone of voice: “and kiss your ass goodbye.” That elicited a pretty robust guffaw from several yogi, if that’s what you call them. But the instructor pointed to the refreshment table. I had been tossed out of my first, and last, yoga class. Clearly, there would be no “socializing” with the suburban women. That’s okay. They were too young for me anyway. Actually, that’s a lie. And I know you know it. You are always criticizing me for omitting “age-appropriate” from my “socializing” criteria.