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.

Planning for Retirement or “I know! I’ll take piano lessons!”

In my memoir class I wrote a series of letters to my daughter Lydia about my non-Dad life. Some touched on my “planning” for retirement, like the one below.

Dear Lydia:

Oh, the things we do in our quest for the perfect retirement. I didn’t want to be totally unprepared, so while I was working at the Hennepin County Attorney’s Office, supposedly part time, I would fantasize about what fun things I could do when I was finished working. That was my mistake, Throughout my life I spent way too much time fantasizing about what thing I was going to do as opposed to just doing that thing. A professional therapist like you might diagnose this as perseveration or rumination. I just spend too much time in my fantasy worlds, so that when I get around to doing the thing I’ve perseverated about and ruminated over, it’s not what I thought it would be. After all, fantasies don’t require us to confront the sometimes nasty difficulties real life presents.

I decided I would learn to play blues piano. The fantasies driving the decision? I would hire a blues band, ask them to play blues songs I had learned, with me playing blues piano, all at a birthday party I would throw for myself. In my second fantasy I would play blues piano with the WCCO Blues Band. Don Shelby was in that band. He’d support me. Doesn’t that sound fun? Doesn’t this sound like other fun things I conjured up? Like the fantasy of playing myself back into shape with old man’s softball, culminating in a trip to orthopedic urgent care. More on that another time.

So as retirement loomed, and my blues piano fantasy bloomed, I signed up for piano lessons at a reputable, and expensive, music school. Only the best for me. So one day I boldly entered the light-filled two story school atrium, confidently marched to the front desk, and authoritatively declared that:

“I want to take blues piano lessons!”

The young woman at the desk looked at me with her best “I am an artist. Who the fuck are you?” look, and in her equally best condescending tone responded:

“We have group lessons for senior citizens.”

With those seven words this snot-nosed child who’s Upspeak would rival any California valley girl had stirred the pot of my deepest anxieties and fed them to me with a large spoon.

With some difficulty I ignored the response my inarticulate inner child suggested. I figured “KISS MY ASS!’ just didn’t fit the quiet space we occupied.

“I’m not interested in group lessons. I’m not interested in lessons for senior citizens. I’d like to take piano lessons that focus on the unique set of chord progressions and rhythms that make up that American musical phenomenon known as blues.”

Actually, I really didn’t say that to her, although I thought it up after leaving the building. I did tell her I wasn’t interested in group or senior lessons and that my needs were quite specific. At that point another person approached me and said that indeed the school did offer the kind of lessons I was seeking. I’m sure it was my imagination, but I thought that she spoke a little louder and a little slower to me than she would to other, younger people, but perhaps my own sensitivities had been heightened my my interaction with Upspeak valley girl.

I signed up for a set number of lessons. A risk, I know, but I was spurred on by fantasy thoughts of accompanying BB King as he strummed the strings of his guitar, Lucille. Or at least the WCCO Blues Band.

I appeared well ahead of my scheduled lesson time. When the door to the music studio opened, a very, very young man walked out and shouted, “Mom! I’m done!” Mom came rushing down the hall, looking as eager to leave the building as her son clearly was. “Good,” I thought. “I’m sure the teacher will be pleased to spend the next hour with a mature person who is excited to be here.”

My teacher was a Spanish woman with a pleasing accent and genuine smile. I told her I wanted to learn blues piano, that I had taken lessons from time to time and that 35 years ago (was it that long?) I was playing some easier Beethoven and Brahms piano works. She placed some sheet music in front of me and said, “Play this.” There were clearly too many notes. After I struggled through two measures she told me to stop.

“Wow! It’s been awhile,” I said.

“Your hand placement is wrong; your wrists should be bent, not straight. Your fingering is wrong; Your fingers should be curled, not straight,” she said. “We will start from the beginning.” She placed a lesson book on the piano. In red letters it screamed “Adult Piano Primer – Book I.”

I opened the book. It had scales for each chord. It had fingering for each scale. I had to turn several pages before I found a song. That song only had single notes, first on the treble clef and then on the base clef. Several pages later the songs actually had notes on both clefs at the same time! Progress.

“But I want to learn to play blues piano. I took these lessons when I was in grade school,” I whined.

“You will eventually learn to play blues piano. But first you must learn to play the piano correctly. Then you will play blues piano correctly.” She said the phrase “blues piano” the way she might say “dog poop” or “radioactive waste.”

So I bent my wrists . . . sometimes. I curled my fingers . . . sometimes. I played scales . . . sometimes. I was reduced to seeking approval from my piano teacher for playing “Row Your Boat” bent and curled.

I’d been at it for several weeks. It was February. I found myself playing a simplified version of “Jingle Bells” – in February. Lydia, maybe you’ll say this was just another example of me getting excited about something and then quitting when I hit a bump. If so, I’m sorry. But really. “Jingle Bells” in February. No blues piano anywhere in sight. By the time she got to blues piano lessons I’d be destitute from all the tuition I’d paid and so arthritic I couldn’t play the piano anyway. Or . . . I could keep going and maybe be able to play “Jingle Bells” at Christmas in the home you’ve put me in.

I canceled the rest of my lessons, but didn’t receive a refund because that was against school policy. So I did the next best thing. I pretended I donated the remainder of my tuition and took it as a charitable deduction. Don’t tell.

I Never Knew Eight Hours Could Last Sooo Long

For 45 years, give or take a month or two, my life meandered through blocks of time, rarely changing from day to day. First, there was “get ready for work,” followed by “commute to work,” then spend the morning “working.” Halfway through the day there was a miniscule block for “lunch,” or “errands,” or, too seldom, “exercise.” Then more “work,” then “prepare to leave,” “commute,” “eat,” “decompress” and finally “sleep.” There was certainty in these blocks of time. There were things to do, places to go, people to see, all in the name of making a living. These are the rituals we establish over a lifetime of . . . “work.”

Of course there were brief respites: family time, the odd holiday, a vacation here or there, a tiny bit of socializing. Make no mistake about it, though; the monster block of time was “work.”

Before I retired, actually I prefer to use the term stopped working, I never actually contemplated what I would do when I stopped working. Not once. I didn’t think about what might be fun, what might be difficult, what might be impossible: to do so would be to acknowledge that I was actually getting old enough that stopping work was a possibility. Maybe in the back of my mind I expected it to be like a string of days off or an extended vacation. I was sure it was going to be freedom, as vague as that concept was.

When Day One came I reveled in the fact that I didn’t have to go to work. I didn’t shave. I worked out in a small gym near my home, went to my favorite diner for an early breakfast, went grocery shopping . . . and then it was 11:00 am. Now there were supposed to be fun things to do, so I started looking for them.

I saw piles of paperwork on my dining table. I have a little ADD so those piles had been around in one form or another for as long as I could remember. I know! Maybe I could finally clean those piles up?

I studied my bookcases. I know! Maybe I could finally read all those books I bought but haven’t touched? Why did I buy them anyway? And why hadn’t I read them yet if I thought they were so damn good when I bought them?

I thought of all the boxes in the basement containing . . . well I wasn’t sure what they contained anymore. I know! Maybe I could go through them all and organize them? Apparently I had already forgotten that there were papers on the dining table that I hadn’t gone through and organized.

I walked into the kitchen. I know! Maybe I’ll start cooking again? Maybe I’ll organize the odds and ends drawer? Maybe I’ll cull through my pantry and remove the expired items? Will I have anything left in the pantry when I’ve done that?

I walked into the bathroom. I know! Maybe I’ll start real house cleaning again? If I decide to do that I’ll start in the bathroom?

I walked into the living room. I saw a huge pile of old magazines containing articles I meant to read. I know! Maybe I’ll finally get a chance to read them, or at least cut out the articles I want to read and recycle the rest of the magazines, along with a couple months of the Sunday New York Times?

I walked into my bedroom. I opened a couple drawers. I looked at my closet with all my suits, most of which I would never wear again. I know! I’ll go through all these spaces and pull the clothes I haven’t worn or won’t wear again and donate them somewhere?

It’s now 11:20 am. I walked into my den and turned on the TV. Jesus! I never knew eight hours could last so long. I know! I’ll start doing fun things tomorrow?

If I can ever figure out what they are.

My First Blog Post

No one said retirement would be this hard! I’ve lurched my way from full time to part time (try this only if you have the discipline to actually do something part time) to retirement. I’ve done lots more lurching in retirement from classes to courses to travel to a memoir class to my TV room and now to a blog, which has proven to be as difficult as everything else I’ve tried. Hang on and come back. I’ve got lot’s to tell. Subscribe below to be notified when I post new updates.

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken

— Oscar Wilde.