That’s what my husband Dave calls our twice weekly exercise class at the YMCA. Officially, it’s Silver Sneakers, a trademarked program of exercise for Active Older Adults. I join him willingly in this class, even though I’m making a leap from dancing jazz with teenagers to exercising ever so gently with 75-year-olds. Dave and I are probably the youngest in the class. We eased into this by taking six private classes with our teacher Margaret, and I’ve not been sorry. Dave is balance-challenged, and this all-around workout is good for him. For me, it’s easy going after a morning of pulling thistles and hefting 40-pound bags of mulch in my landscaping business.
It feels just a bit strange to be the youngest in the class
after being the oldest for years. I’m adjusting to a whole new reference group—the
folks who will be my exercise companions through my senior years. They will
drop out, one by one, and people younger than me will come to take their
places. But Margaret will go on, voicing cheerful step-by-step instructions and
encouraging us not to do any moves the doctor has told us we shouldn’t do.
We start with a standing warm-up to the thump, thump,
thumping rhythm of top ten hits remastered to fit the strictly even beat needed
to guide our movements. First march in place, right left right left…four…three…two…one,
then heel and heel, right and left, for eight counts, now toe and toe, and up
and back, step touch side-to-side, and forward and back. All warmed up, we sit
down for our stretching moves, then do resistance work with elastic ropes, then
balance exercises with the ball, and muscle toning with weights. It’s all good,
mercifully easy, and wonderfully soothing.
I had the weirdest experience the other day, though. I was
in the midst of step-touch, step-touch, Margaret officiating, when I realized
we were moving to a song by the Jefferson Airplane—“Don’t you want somebody to
love, doooon’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love,
gotta find somebody to love….” That fabulous old rock tune! This flash of
awareness threw me into a major flashback to life in simpler times…
I conjure up an image from long ago and far away: Surrounded
by hippies in full hippie regalia. Dave and me, circa 1969. In a crowd
descending on Diamondhead crater on the island of Oahu in Hawaii to hear a rock
concert. Our son Dan a babe in arms. We’re passed by a convertible with the top
down, carrying the band that’s about to play for the throng. The sole woman in
the car sees us with the baby, and smiles. A brush with greatness. Grace Slick
of the soaring voice. The Grace Slick, the first female rock star. With Jefferson
Airplane before they became Jefferson Starship! A story that’s become part of
the family lore and a source of pride for our guitarist son, Dan, who takes
inspiration from having been “blessed” by a famous rocker.
My musings are interrupted by this unsettling thought: When
Dave and I are ready for long-term care in the nursing home like my mom, will
they be piping Jefferson Airplane songs on the loudspeaker during meals in the
dining room? Or “Big Chill” songs? Or, God forbid, Bob Dylan? What happened to
those blithe youngsters we were? In the blink of an eye, we’ve joined the ranks
of Active Older Adults.
It boggles the mind.
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