Saturday, April 12, 2008
Aging, One Lap at a Time
Self-care seems to be in the ether. Is it because we’re almost 30? I remember being 21 and commenting to a friend how the late 20s had to be the worst—I’d pointed to the group of them in the corner of the disco. “They’re trying to be 22, but they can’t.” Now suddenly I’m in limbo, a point in which the antics of my youth aren’t so charming anymore, while there’s still time for nonsense.
The compromise had been exercise.
I’ve chosen swimming at the municipal pool and the only reason I mention it is the novelty of the required swimming cap everyone must wear. An aqua aerobics class has been running during my pass two visits, so an instructor barks orders to bouncing middle-aged women, all wearing caps, and suddenly I’m at the cinema, not the movies, with the frank, euro-acceptance of the body, the world of spas and subtitles and porcelain baths—comfortable flab beneath swimsuits and caps.
I had a scare as I opened the steam room to find four fifty-year-old-swim-suited women already chatting in the cramped space. I quickly shut the door like Bill Murray slamming the refrigerator shut in Ghostbusters after finding Zuul inside.
So far, so good. By joining the local gym, my life in Spain has moved closer to the mundane. But it feels good, my heart is pumping, and I’m striving for a healthy routine. Is this the adulthood that’s been waiting for me all along? Is there a right way to be fitter, happier, more productive? Will my swim-cap heal my 20-something angst before it’s too late?
The answer, as far as I can see, is in the water. I’ll plead no-contest and go for swim.
The compromise had been exercise.
I’ve chosen swimming at the municipal pool and the only reason I mention it is the novelty of the required swimming cap everyone must wear. An aqua aerobics class has been running during my pass two visits, so an instructor barks orders to bouncing middle-aged women, all wearing caps, and suddenly I’m at the cinema, not the movies, with the frank, euro-acceptance of the body, the world of spas and subtitles and porcelain baths—comfortable flab beneath swimsuits and caps.
I had a scare as I opened the steam room to find four fifty-year-old-swim-suited women already chatting in the cramped space. I quickly shut the door like Bill Murray slamming the refrigerator shut in Ghostbusters after finding Zuul inside.
So far, so good. By joining the local gym, my life in Spain has moved closer to the mundane. But it feels good, my heart is pumping, and I’m striving for a healthy routine. Is this the adulthood that’s been waiting for me all along? Is there a right way to be fitter, happier, more productive? Will my swim-cap heal my 20-something angst before it’s too late?
The answer, as far as I can see, is in the water. I’ll plead no-contest and go for swim.
# posted by Ellery @ 12:35 
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