It seems that making decisions becomes more difficult to those of a certain age. Perhaps it’s because we’ve spent a lifetime making them. Where should we live? What schools are the best for our kids? How do we choose the right car with the best gas mileage? What is the right career and the perfect job? I don’t know about you, but at this point in my life, I sometimes feel as if my decision quota has been reached and I just don’t have it in me anymore to make another one.
Ask any expert how to maintain healthy aging and they’ll tell you to eat right and exercise. I’ve read it in books. My general practitioner told me, as did the chiropractor who said I should keep training for a marathon, despite all my aches and pains. I’m not sure that his motive is pure.
So, here I am in a class called Barre Pilates, which would be better named Get Out While You Can Still Walk. I walked in here just fine, but, judging by how my nerve endings are jumping right now, I may be carried out on this beautiful blue yoga mat.
Back when I was growing up, a waif-like model named Twiggy burst onto the scene. A body replete with skin and bones and a short haircut was uncharacteristic of the times, yet as a super-model in England in the 1960’s, her influence on teenaged girls was instantaneous.
Back then, skinny was everything. We equated over-thinness with beauty and health, in priority order. I recall making sure that my hip bones were prominent when I laid on the beach. The more pronounced they were, the more attractive I believed I was.
Spring has sprung. The buttery yellow daffodils sway in the breeze while the red-breasted robin beckons from the trees. Mother Nature has pulled out all the stops once again as the drab grey winter gives way to the spectacular performance that is the pleasant prelude to summer.
The scene inside my house, while not as hueful as outside, is no less daunting. Each year the ritual is the same – swap winter wardrobe for a summer one. Scarves, hats and gloves find their way into my grandmother’s old black steamship trunk, a fitting color for the deadness that has prevailed over these last few dull months. Sweaters the color of mud find their way to the bottom of the pile. Coats lined with fleece have no place in the exuberance that is now June’s finery. Boots, socks, wool pants that have honorably performed their job of keeping my legs warm are now relieved of their duties.