the world is always changing

This week I went to a weight lifting class that in a past life I attended a few times a week while also raising two small children and forming the youngest one. Back then I worked my way up to the heaviest weight the bar could handle and could hang for the full hour. Belly and all. I bet my bones were dense as f*ck back then but I didn’t care, I was in it for a nice ass. And if I do say so myself…

I know I sound like an old person when I talk about how out of shape I am now—how I can’t believe I let it all go so easily. I didn’t even have to try to go flabby. It just happened. It’s a rite of passage, isn’t it? That’s what I tell myself anyway. Every person I know over forty complains about how they took their youth for granted and now it seems their body has turned against them, and yet when it happened to me, it still felt like a surprise. What do you mean my muscle tone didn’t remain after a four year absence from the gym?

Waiting for the class before ours to wrap up, I watched women twice my age lift the maximum weight and felt admiration for their dedication to themselves. They had not taken the same hiatus I had after the pandemic. They remained vigilant in their body maintenance, where I took time to focus only on my thoughts. The old ladies know better than any of us how things slip if you aren’t careful. Keeping in mind how strenuous the class was and that the only lifting I’ve been doing lately is large dictionaries and tubs of ice cream, I kept the weight light. By the end of the class everything felt heavy. I focused intently on my form, knowing a back or knee injury at this age might be with me for the rest of my life. I suppressed grumpy thoughts about music these days while counting down the minutes to the cool down that would give me an excuse to lay flat on the floor and not move.

I made it to the end.

For the next few days I walked around hyper aware of the individual muscles of each thigh. I worked my right side a little harder. I felt that in my shoulder. It was painful to move the regular way. A friend who attended with me sent a gif of a fawn learning to walk which was accurate. I descended the stairs sideways gripping the railing tightly in case my legs suddenly gave out completely, and avoided unnecessary trips to the bathroom because getting up off the toilet felt impossible. Every time I wanted to cry in pain I thought about my old lady bones and how I did this for them.

I’m on my way to old lady. I know this about myself because every message I’ve ever received from the media I consumed in my society told me that old starts at forty. And I’m on my way to forty-two. The thing is I feel young. I don’t feel like an old lady. I feel like a force.

Lately I’m trying to recognize my body as hardware, not unlike a space station. It’s the physical packaging I need in order to explore the world safely. A place to breathe. Unfortunately, housekeeping is not my strong suit. I’m kind of a slob. My space station is a hot mess. While I’ve been focused on making the most of my frozen dinners, the electrical patch jobs are adding up and it’s probably time to rerun a line or two. I ought to think of self care as preventative maintenance. It’s best to update the wiring before it shorts out and burns the place down. So I aim to eat right and exercise to keep the place running. I intend to, anyway. I’m not perfect at it. I can’t see the forest for the trees. (Or can I see the forest for the trees? And do I want to see the trees, or do I want to see the forest? Aren’t they both useful in their own way? I never understood that one.) My exact actions change from moment to moment, but I’m confident I’ve pushed the Overton window toward kind care of the body. I make sure things are functioning properly. I don’t want to go floating off into space because some screw came loose. I’d like to stick around for a while. There are things I endeavor to do and I wouldn’t mind doing them with a tight ass.