As I was hopping around to my old aerobics DVD the other day, a realization hit me. It was one of those realizations that you read about—a St. Francis sort of transformation that turns you from a rich playboy into a poverty-ridden monk. As the instructor screamed, “HOW DOES THAT FEEL?” and the rest of the class in unison screamed, “GOOD!”— I realized: I am not an aerobics person anymore.
It doesn’t sound like much, I know, but after the realization dawned it became difficult to finish exercising. The sweaty masses in back of their glistening, toned guru (because the instructors always glisten—never sweat) yelled; they clapped; they smiled; they counted; they annoyed me—mostly because if I looked at the screen just right I could see myself ten years ago jumping and cheering along with them. The girl on the screen works out every day—sometimes twice a day—she strips down and stands on the scale every morning, wraps a tape measure around her mid-section every week, never eats a gram fat, fried food, or red meat, and treats herself to two pieces of Gnocchi with pesto and one petit fore every Friday. As I look at myself on the screen I hear myself saying, “Damn, I was thin,” and in the same breath, “Damn, I was hungry.”
It was then I looked longingly into the corner at where my yoga mat stood, loosely rolled from its last use, the yoga strap and brick alongside patiently waiting. In another corner sat my hiking boots, still covered in dust from a previous day’s hike, one boot still tied, with my grime covered socks stuck in them waiting to be laundered.
Then it struck me—I am not a mountain person anymore.
Don’t misunderstand—I could have written “Rocky Mountain High”—but, now I don’t have to climb them. When I was younger, I always had to get somewhere—the top the mountain, the end of the trail, the pinnacle of something. Now I can’t remember the last time I reached a summit. I can’t even remember the last time I tried. On the previous day’s hike, I sat for an hour watching two bald eagles at play. They chased each other forming a double-helix in the sky and teased the sparrows innocently flying below them. As they flew, their necks craned downward searching the river for fish. A man and his daughter passed me on their bikes, and I pointed toward the sky. The little girl just kept going. I stayed. It was a good hike.
I then started to make a mental list of what I’m not: I’m not a shot or a pitcher person—I like a glass of dry red wine or a dark microbrew; I’m not a TV or videogame person—I enjoy documentaries and NPR; I’m not a bar or club person—I prefer dinner parties with friends; I’m not a comics person—I read editorials and the news. I now choose snowshoes over the treadmill and my backpack over the step. I don’t water ski— I bought a lake kayak and a book about quiet water. Now I take pictures of lilies and marshy areas and hope that the loon swimming beside me will get closer.
As I push “stop” on the DVD, I wonder when I became this person. At 32 I stopped dating men who were bad for me, at 33 I stayed home instead of hitting the bars, at 34 I quit smoking and started writing, at 35 I picked up my life in Colorado and moved it back home to the way life should be—Maine. For the first time in 17 years I spent Thanksgiving with my father and personally gave a birthday gift to my mother. Now I am 39 and a wife and mother, and I wonder, what's next?
No, I don’t like aerobics now. I am more of a yoga girl—but not Power Yoga—that goes too fast; I just want to breathe into my belly and hold the air in until I tingle.
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