Sweating oldies

I remember when grandmothers supplied ample laps for the little ones to sit on. Grandmothers supplied large, soft arms to wrap around small children. Attaining the status of "Grandmother" meant a woman could relax and stop competing with all the willowy blondes strutting across the movie screens. These ladies had it made. They had arrived at Grand motherhood.

Where did we lose this picture of grandmothers? I got my first inkling of something amiss when my young daughter pleaded with me to go to a health club. If she brought someone in who would go through the sales talk, she could have a free six-week membership. I immediately said, "Yes." I counted on this daughter to make me a grandmother sometime in the future and then I could develop that ample lap and large, soft arms. I would do anything to make her happy.

Then we entered the club, and I found the young malnourished- looking child at the desk would be my guide in this unfamiliar world smelling suspiciously of sweat. I have always avoided activities producing sweat. My mother told me that horses sweat, men perspire, and women glow. A lady came no closer to physical exertion than that.

So here I stood, facing a very large mirror where my guide proceeded to point out all my shortcomings. Unfortunately, there were no "short" comings; the problem appeared as an over abundance of everything. Barbie (she had to be the model for the Mattel version) placed herself next to me - miniature perfection and Frankenstein monster. I loomed. I towered. I flabbed. I took up the whole mirror.

She told me I could soon look like her. Only with a height reduction of about 12 inches and flesh removal by the shovelful, I thought to myself.

But that proved to be the beginning of my lifelong commitment to attaining the vision of the new grandmother. First came the diets. I tried them all. I shopped. I chopped. I chewed.

They lied.

It's impossible to eat enough celery to feel "so full you can't eat another bite."

Food denial, however, would not complete the transformation. We must exercise! Lots of exercise.

I come from the era when girls, delicate and tender, could only play half-court basketball. Now the health club asked me to treat this worn-out body so cruelly.

The first shock occurred as I entered the locker room to get into my new exercise clothes. My Lord! Naked bodies wandered all over the place. Some of these bodies showed what conditioning might do - hard, tight muscles. They had cute bottoms. I remembered how bottoms looked when they weren't covered with cellulite. I couldn't stare, but where could I look? I finally figured it out by putting on my sweatsuit while staring at the ceiling.

More challenges faced me as I prepared for my initiation into what they call aerobic. They used to call it the Spanish Inquisition, but that got such bad press they sneaked it back in under an assumed name.

I stood in line surrounded by mere youngsters. Some looked so young I wondered if they were skipping school. These children bounced around and did some weird contortions they called "stretching."

Then the instructor came in. She wore this red, knit band around her head. She informed us we should all get one as it would keep the sweat out of our eyes. SWEAT? What's this about sweat? I'm supposed to sweat?

My mother never did anything so gross, and she did a wonderful job of grandmothering with her ample lap and full, comforting arms. What had I gotten myself into?

Then the horror began. She told us we would start with some warm- up exercise. That sounded rather benign. So we stretched and bounced and twisted and did other unkind things to our bodies. My back kept screaming "Stop!" But what could I do? I couldn't just stomp off and call it quits. I had seen "Rocky" 1 and 2 and 3. A real American always tries.

Now the class got into the really rough stuff - the old "squat- thrust." I had been noted for them back in my high school gym class. But after starting the exercise, it became obvious some things had changed over the years. I found the floor a lot farther down on the "squat" and there seemed so much more to "thrust" than there used to be.

My eyes began to blur. Something ran into my eyes. Oh, no, it's sweat! Maybe I should get one of those bands for around the head. Wait a minute - would I really think of coming back? That idea must be coming from a lack of oxygen to the brain.

That hour of pain seemed to go on forever. Surely, someone had stopped all the clocks. One torture followed another. Finally, the end came. All these young things wandered off together, talking (they still had enough breath to talk). I staggered to the locker room. All the naked bodies couldn't even faze me now.

But I had to take a shower. I, too, had to strip. I had to face the truth. I would never be a comfortable grandmother. I would continue to suffer for some unattainable goal.

"Aw. To heck with it. Cellulite bearers of the world, unite," I muttered, pulling off the smelly sweats and heading to the showers, naked.

Copyright 2000 Cowles Publishing Company
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