Adventures in Fitness
Tags: Exercise, Fitnessmotivation, Womens Health, Friendship, Fitness

(or How I Learned to Love My Washboard Abs, Even Though They are Covered with Laundry)

By Debby Waldman

When my friends Kathy and Verna asked me to be their workout partner ten years ago, I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted, frightened, or flattered.

Part of my reaction had to do with the way Verna phrased the invitation. “You should sign up for Boot Camp with us!” she announced at a New Year’s Eve party. “We’ll whip you into shape!”

I was a classic endomorph even before menopause put the brakes on my metabolism, erasing whatever waistline I once had. Still, it had never occurred to me that my peers might see me as the poster child for a middle-aged makeover challenge.

Also, I had yet to recover from the trauma of elementary school gym class. It wasn’t just being chosen last for every team, it was the memory of my teacher, Mrs. Williams, throwing a ball at my head and barking, “Are you uncoordinated?” that had left me with lifelong anxiety about participating in any sort of athletic activity.

My ideal forms of exercise were walking, reading (while walking, if possible), and making cookies using a wooden spoon (not only does it provide an aerobic workout, it is easier to lick than the whisk attachments for my electric mixer).

What made me say yes to what is essentially adult gym class was a combination of neediness (I hate being left out) and the fear of waking up at age 80 unable to move without pain. During the last 20 years of her life, my mother suffered with what I came to think of as the Trifecta of Movement Disorders: rheumatoid arthritis, spinal stenosis, and Parkinson’s disease. There was no guarantee that my doing two hours of strength, core, and cardio training for eight weeks would save me from the same fate, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. Or, if it did hurt, it would be the good kind of hurt, the pain-for-gain variety.

I pictured Boot Camp as a 21st-century version of the aerobics class I had taken with a friend in the 1980s, but instead of women in baggy sweats dancing to disco music, I’d be surrounded by women wearing Lululemon athletic gear while Beyonce blared over loudspeakers.

I was wrong.

For starters, there were only four of us: me, Kathy, Verna, and a guy in his mid-fifties whose wife had given him Boot Camp as a Christmas present (or, as I imagine he thought of it, a booby prize). He stopped coming after the first week.

We didn’t dance, nor did the instructor bother with music. In fact, our aerobic activity was limited to intervals (a new concept for me) on either the bikes, treadmills, or rowing and elliptical machines in the fitness center where Boot Camp took place.

Mostly we squatted, lunged, did sit-ups, and lifted weights. Sometimes we did “burpees,” which reminded me of the squat thrusts I suffered through in gym class (although squat thrusts never brought on incontinence).

We also did exercises on stability balls and the bosu. I was inept at pretty much everything. This made me grateful that our trainer, Brian, was both patient and (unlike Mrs. Williams) positive. When I could not for the life of me figure out how to do a squat, he encouraged me to pretend I was sitting on a chair. When that proved beyond the realm of my stunted physical imagination, he suggested I do the squats over a weight-lifting bench, so that I’d have an actual seat to aim for.

Squats were a cinch compared to pushups and planks. The first few times that I stretched out for the latter, propping myself on my elbows and willing my abdominal muscles to hold me in place for what felt like weeks, I questioned why I was paying to make myself so miserable. After all, I could go home and be emotionally abused by my teenage daughter for free.

By the end of eight weeks, however, I could hold a plank for a minute without capsizing. I could also do 15 pushups in a row (in what I called the cheater position — from my knees — but it was a huge improvement over what I’d managed at the start, which was nothing). Even better, I could walk within two days of doing lunges and squats, a significant step forward from when the class began, when I could barely walk for the first two weeks.

Maybe someday I’ll enter a weight-lifting competition. Who knew?

About six weeks into the session, my fitness friends announced that we should sign up for another round. By this time, we’d asked two other neighborhood pals, Joyce and Debby, to join us. None of us work at the same place, so exercising gave us a chance to not only be healthy, but spend time together. By July and August, Verna, Kathy, and I were running a few times a week.

When fall rolled around, the five of us signed up again for Boot Camp. Brian had been reassigned, and a tall, strong, blonde twenty-something trainer named Krystle took over.

I spent the beginning of the first class alternately muttering that I missed Brian, and whining to Joyce. Krystle spent the beginning of the first class telling me to be quiet and pay attention.

I did pay attention. Now, nine years later, I am glad I did. Krystle challenged us with inventive workouts that made us sweat, made us strong and made each hour seem like ten minutes. We formed a mutual admiration society: we were impressed with her creativity and energy, and she was inspired by our dedication. She referred to us as her “Superladies,” a name that stuck long after she moved on to an administrative role at the gym and passed us on to another trainer.

I never expected gym class to teach me lessons about life, but that’s exactly what happened. One of the biggest: physical fitness is not about competition, it’s about self-improvement. And it’s a lot easier to improve yourself when you do it with friends who support and encourage you.

One of my least-favorite machines, the pull-up torture thingie. But I use it, because it’s good for me, and it doesn’t last as long as the Trump presidency did.

In the seven months since the pandemic shut down the gym, my exercise buddies and I have been working out independently. When I couldn’t purchase free weights anywhere, I improvised with heavy bookends and kettle bells. I’ve been keeping up with my planks and squats and lunges, warming up first on the exercise bike I bought a dozen years ago. Next week my husband and I are adding a treadmill to what has become our basement gym.

In addition to a commitment to fitness, Boot Camp gave me something else I never expected: biceps. I have a vivid memory of the day I discovered them, while soaping myself in the shower. I remember thinking, “These don’t feel like my arms. There is something firm where there used to be flab.”

I am no Madonna. To paraphrase a friend, “my washboard abs are covered with laundry.” But I no longer despise my body. Indeed, I have a newfound appreciation for what it is (and I am) capable of: I can hold a plank for well over a minute. I can do squats on a bosu without falling over. I can balance competently on one foot. I can do leg lifts and mountain climbers and Russian twists without wanting to cry. I can run for 45 minutes without stopping or gasping for air. I can press 400 pounds with my legs.

Equally powerful, I discovered something that, as a child, I did not imagine was possible: I like gym class. When the pandemic passes, I’ll be back at it again. For now, independent study will suffice.