Niagara Falls, Part Two
Back in the early 80s, I took an aerobics class at a local storefront fitness center.
It was women only, so we weren’t trying to impress any Hans and Franz dudes.
But it didn’t stop us from being adorable.
This is me in 1983 in my favorite aerobics outfit. Yeah, you’re looking at a high-cut pink leotard with matching leg-warmers and headband. With white tights. Apparently, I was traumatized by not being allowed to take ballet as a kid. So I got another chance at 32.
About two dozen ridiculously dressed women met twice a week and pranced around to Olivia Newton-John and Duran Duran. Then we’d take off our sneakers and weigh ourselves. We were all young and skinny then so it was just a tradition.
Although I looked stupid, I had fun.
The crazy thing about exercising back then: I never sweated.
I was the driest person on the planet.
My headband was for style only. (fabulous style)
Even our post-class sauna couldn’t make me sweat.
My friends and co-leg-warmer-wearers were amazed. Actually, they were a little creeped out.
And here it is twenty-nine years later.
All that sweat that I saved up in my thirties is delighted to break free in my sixties.
You’d think my hormones would be done by now. But menopause is one of Nature’s greatest wonders. Like Niagara Falls.
Hot flashes are uncomfortable. What happens when I exercise is astounding. Even mild exercise turns me into Rocky Balboa after seven rounds. I can weed the garden and water it at the same time.
And strenuous exercise, like my Yoga (and YES, Yoga is strenuous) and Zumba?
You know those boys who run out on the basketball court to wipe the floor after a player falls down?
I could use a couple to stand on either side of me during Zumba.
But sweating has its upside.
My Yoga teacher is impressed. “Wow” she said last week, “You really work out hard.”
I didn’t tell her that I look pretty much the same when I dust.