Happy Healthy New Year!

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, except to say I’m tempted by Dave Buchanan’s suggestion to visit more wineries and drink more wine. There will be hordes of people who again this year will resolve to lose weight, get in shape and join a health club. I am not one of those. I am, however, considering joining a gym. Mostly because my goal (different from a resolution) this year is to improve my running speed by lifting weights and cross-training. I signed Alex up for a membership at one of the local gyms, and my sister - a member of the same gym - gave me a 12-day guest pass which I activated on Monday. There are many pros and cons to consider before I fork over another $40 a month for a membership of my own. I am mentally giving careful consideration to my gym memberships of the past. When I lived in Atlanta in the mid-80’s to early-90’s I held a membership at a gym that was in our office building. Very convenient, and we did step aerobics and pumped iron on our lunch hour. One of our co-workers, Henry, was a former Marine drill sergeant and he entertained us by calling us various parts of the human anatomy while screaming at us to work harder. I clearly remember a pink leotard and neon colored tights that were part of my standard workout attire. Very Olivia Newton John. Back then it was critical to look good in a leotard. Or at least be concerned about looking good in a leotard. Not so much anymore. In fact, one of the good things about going to a gym when you’re “older’ is that nobody expects you to look good so there’s no pressure! In fact, I rarely bother to suck in my stomach anymore. Very liberating. And the whole locker room thing? Wow - that dynamic really changes too. Back in the day, there were all those furtive comparisons of exposed flesh when one was changing into said pink leotards. You knew the ladies were thinking about each other in terms of, “Better spend a little more time on the glute machine, honey.” Or, “Those Friday night binges are starting to show up on your Monday afternoon thighs.” Now, I use one of the private changing rooms. Not because I’m all that modest, or prefer not to be judged, but out of consideration for the other ladies in the locker room. The view ain’t what it used to be, and when I apply lotion after my shower, I would rather not subject anyone else to it. Some things about gyms haven’t changed over the decades. It’s still incredibly boring to run on a treadmill. I still don’t like aerobics classes (an aversion to being told what to do), and the quad machine still hurts like hell. There are still the doofuses who leave their sweat on the equipment. And yes, there are still all those hard bodies prancing and primping. I’m just not one of them anymore. But my inner pink leotard lives on. I can still hear Henry screaming at me, and I can still do a respectable number of man push-ups. My son Alex shows me how to use some of the weight machines and is secretly impressed by my muscular prowess. But he will not allow me to go to the gym while he’s there if I’m wearing my “tights” as he calls my Under-Armour workout pants. “No, mom, just . . . no.” If he only knew how I looked in the neon ones of yore.