A year of Nerd Fitness

 This month I turned 65. It hit me like a ton of bricks, to use a cliché (which I’ve been informed GREAT writers never do.)

I’ve always laughed at birthday numbers. I’ve proudly announced my age: 40, 50, 55. But 65 has thrown me for a loop. (Oops, another cliché. Must be losing my stuff.)

Growing up in America, age 65 has been the official commencement of old age since July 30, 1965, when President Johnson signed Medicare into law. I was eight years old. A presidential signature. 65? You’re old.

I subconsciously put it off. I didn’t sign up for Medicare until 12 days before I turned 65. I had vaguely heard the advice to sign up three months in advance of my birthday, but I didn’t do it. I don’t recommend the ‘head-in-sand’ approach. (Another cliché)

It all worked out. I’m officially on Medicare and working on understanding what that means.

I’m also working on overcoming my dismay at being officially old.

Please don’t comment with ‘you’re as young as you feel,’ or any such pep talk. Let me wallow in my self-pity for a post.

A year ago, on December 1^st, I joined Nerd Fitness' one-on-one coaching. My first coach resigned (I’m not taking it personally: she bought a farm with her husband and was expecting a baby) and Coach Sarah and I have been working together since February. She’s a weightlifter in Ohio and has a pet duck.

Lately I’ve been skipping workouts, feeling old and worn out. Writing this, I’m suddenly reminded of the night before Peter was born (our second child). It had been lightly snowing and I was in very early labor all day. Since our doctor was in Indianapolis, an hour north of Columbus, Indiana, where we lived, we decided to drop Rachel (now R’el) off at our friend’s house for an overnight while we went to a Red Roof Inn in Indianapolis. Our kids can explain to you what a big deal that must have been. I won’t regale you with the whole story, but after a whole movie in a theater (Tootsie with Dustin Hoffman) sans contractions, I was awakened in the Inn at 3:30 a.m. with powerful ones. I told Jim I didn’t think I could handle this and he gave me a firm coach-to-pregnant-woman-in-labor lecture: basically, buck up. (Well, what else could he offer?) That helped, a lot. He was a fantastic childbirth coach for each of our six births. I’m grateful he was there by my side, helping me through contractions, one at a time.

Fast-forward 38 years: yet again I’ve got to buck up. I’ve now spent enough time whining about being old. I was appalled the other day when my nearly-four-year-old granddaughter said, as she took off running, I’m faster than you! It was true.

I can only go forward. Hopefully I can maintain strength, maybe improve a bit. It is a big challenge. Back to those Romanian Deadlifts.