The Manic Jogger

The Manic Jogger
Barbara Warman

Other than starving, the only way to lose weight is to exercise. My doctor says so. I'm a bit chubby, he says.
I tried the gym but found I could make excuses from the smallest sniffles. "Well, it wouldn't be very nice getting germs all over the weights," I told the Florence Nightingale who sits on my shoulder.
I tried jogging. Land on your heel in your $200 running shoes and roll your foot forward, take off from your toes. I landed on my toes and took off from my heels. Couldn't get the routine. Needed to pee.
Tai Chi classes looked easy. "This is the first step of 108," the instructor explained, "These are the same movements the people of China practice at dawn." She showed us the grace of moving from one step to the other, shifting out weight. I was gone by step three. Had the sniffles.
I joined a class for women ages 55-plus at the senior center. Three times a week. It's bound to be easy when it's designed for women over 55. The rest of them had to be shapeless and as unfamiliar with exercise as I was.
When I showed up in baggy sweats and a large T-shirt I was horrified to find they appeared to be my age but slimmer, more energetic. How trim they looked in pink spandex and turquoise thongs. They had fire in their eyes. I had desperation in mine. They were already marching in place eagerly.
"This cannot be true," I whispered to my shoulder-sitter Florence.
"Oh," Florence says, "but look at this dude coming in."
Enter the instructor, Ian. He is twenty years younger than I am and he looks fine in tight shorts and a body hugging T-shirt.
"Welcome, girls." Our bodies, he informs us, are full of deltoids, abductors and rhomboids. My body has hemorrhoids.
"This week we are going to strengthen our rhomboids but first let's march." Loud marching music begins and like a sheep I follow Ian's movements, marveling at his curls and the rippling muscles in his back.
"Now kick out your right foot," he yells. "Now  punch out your left arm." Who knew I was this uncoordinated? I suspect it's the fault of the Brownie troop leader who spent months trying to teach me to skip when I was a child. She eventually got the sniffles.
Finally we march in place in front of a thin, solid mat covered in weights and bands. The mirror reflects me standing, puffing, cheeks bright red. The skinny pink-togged creature next to me is doing lunges.
I learn that each weight I lift will strengthen something - my biceps, my triceps or my pecs. I can lift five pounds - once or twice. Then I stretch. Ian tells me to attach my belly button to my spine. By the time I've found my belly button in the folds we've moved onto abductors or aductors. I wish my abductor muscles could do something useful and abduct Ian. I could be free of him. I'll happily lend my flexor band to my abductor muscles so they can tie him up. Ian, tied up. I smile. Florence reads my mind and smiles too.
"So, what do you think this contortion is helping?" Ian calls out glancing my way.
"Deltoids?" I suggest weakly.
"No, your trapezoids," Ian yells, "Come up here, I'll show you where your deltoids are."
I pretend not to hear, he demonstrates on a spandexed filly and the torture continues.
"Ah, yes, " he bellows, "Your gluteus maximus," as he swivels and crouches slightly, slapping himself in the rear in that blatant way he has. I would never do that and I'll admit I'm uncomfortable around anyone who would.
Now I'm done with Ian. He crossed the line. He told us we should stand naked in front of a mirror to see how much we had "bulked up". I trembled with horror.
He then told us he was going to demonstrate what he does to enhance his erector spinae.
Florence stayed. I fled.
Now I know I can jog.