Yakima Mom

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Archive for the tag “Aging”

Grandma? Did you say Grandma??!

I recently signed up for the gym again. I’ve been going two or three times a week, and am just starting to feel a little more comfortable among the grunting, sweaty behemoths and the girls with the beautiful arms. Today I noticed a young 20-something man looking my way as I stretched some sore muscles. He approached, and I assumed he was going to tell me I was doing something incorrectly.

“Hi. Are you Jared’s grandma?” he asked.

indexAll I heard was GRANDMA.

While my confidence and ego began to quietly implode, I heard my voice say, “What?”

So he repeated himself. “Are you Jared’s grandma?”

I think I smiled one of those mouth smiles when your eyes don’t move. “No, no grand children yet.”

GRAND effing MA??

He went on. “Wow, her hair is just like yours. You look just like her!”

What is one supposed to say?

“Nope. Not yet.” More fakey smile.

He went back to his 4,000 bar bell, and I told myself this was no reason to go straight home to bed. It took some serious talk to do another 60 seconds of plank and  30 more crunches before heading to the bike.

Grandma?

I began to rationalize. The guy must’ve been mid-twenties… his friend Jared would’ve be about the same… born when I was 25, which meant I would have had Jared’s mom or dad when I was what…12?

The only explanation I could conceive was that, clearly, the young man was an idiot, and his mother hadn’t taught him, 1) Never ask a woman if she is pregnant, and 2) Never ask a woman who is younger than 80 if she’s someone’s grandmother.

I have decided I need to ensure my own boys are aware of such indiscretions, as I’d hate to make another 50 year old woman feel the way I did.

I will also be calling my hair stylist, first thing tomorrow morning.

Untitled

There is no title for this post. It is too scattered, too random.

The neighbor “Boy” is playing his guitar in his garage. He’s 17. He thinks his future career is in music.

The chords-especially the long low ones- vibrate through my windows, nearly an acre away.

I don’t mind.

He is 17. His gorgeous blonde hair is dyed black. He has big dreams.

I have pictures of him when he is three or four, digging in the dirt with our boys. Cherry juice smeared across their faces.

Our oldest son is in New Orleans. He’s gone on an “Immersion;” a school-based service trip.

He’ll be gone all week. He leaves for University in just a few, short months.

Our daughter is on the couch, doing homework. She’s disappointed because I won’t take her driving right now.

She’s 15. She already drove 45 minutes today. I say I’m done for the day, I am relaxing now.

She says I can relax while she drives.

Ha.

I am feeling like I have missed something… that I’m not quite the parent that I believed I was.

I am not as good as I thought I was.

I’m sorry. I DID say this was pretty random.

This letting go is so hard.

Aging Gracefully… or Not

Y’all be proud of me. I drug my sorry ass out of bed this a.m. and headed to bootcamp at gym where the judge goes regularly, and I haven’t been to in… well, it’s been a while.

I used to take a lot of classes there—kick boxing being my favorite. Pretending to beat the crap out of an imaginary guy really did something for me. I developed a lovely right jab and left hook. My roundhouse wasn’t great, but I could follow it with an uppercut that would knock the poor guy out cold.

I was a regular then, and had earned my spot in the front row. The instructors knew me and would say hi at the Farmer’s Market and such. I felt like a rock star inside.

I’d see the older, perhaps a bit out-of-shape, ladies come in and head to the back of the class. I would be nice to them. I mean…they were making an effort, you know? They were getting out there and trying to keep the upper hand on the old aging process. They were cute.

Well, as one of my favorite bloggers would say, today I got bitch slapped.

I was that older, slightly out-of-shape woman. I’m still cringing at the recognition of it.

The judge and I were a minute late, which was completely my fault. A 5:15 class is early, WAY too early for a not-morning-person like myself. The judge brought me coffee and everything, but it just took me a while to become completely conscious. I know you other not-morning-people know what I’m talking about.

When we got there, they were just about ready to do a warm up. “Who are the new people?” the perky teacher called out. Um, yeah. So much for melting into the back.

There were four of us newbies. I believe I was (gak!) the oldest.

Warm ups ended and I was winded. And breaking a sweat. Not a good sign when the warm up is a hot up.

Thankfully, there were about 12 stations Perky Girl had to explain, which provided a great breather for me. I got my wind. My brain rallied. This will be great! I said to myself.

40 minutes later, my legs were shaking, my shoulders were in knots, I had a major spasm forming in my lower back, and I was dripping sweat. Mmmmm. I love a good sweat, but the pain, and yes, embarrassment, were putting a damper on the sweaty joy.

The Perky Girl paid a attention to me. She told me to go ahead and “modify” the moves. Oh, and start with the smaller weights.

Really, why didn’t she just announce, “Hey see this one here? She’s past her prime!”

“Modifying” became setting the ten pound weight on my head, instead of holding it above with straight arms. My V-sits became crunches, and then something resembling a turtle flailing about while on its back. When the instructor said we were done, I said a little prayer of thanks.

I had thought we had to do two circuits! I was wondering if anyone would notice if I sat in the bathroom for the second time through, stretching my crampy back and licking my damaged ego. But it was just one grueling 45 minutes, and we were done.

Perky Girl came over to me. “Are you coming back Friday?” she asked.

It’s a bit foggy now, but I think I said yes.

By then I was fully awake. I had the day’s workout in. I knew I had a whole bottle of ibuprofin just waiting for me at home. Come after-work hours, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty for not taking a walk. And Friday was a long ways away.

“Yes. Yes, I think I am,” I told her.

(Uh, no. That’s not me.)

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