My bad knee, thanks for asking, has improved considerably due to a combination of ice, Ibuprofen, physical therapy, and the passage of time since the original injury. But limping for the better part of a year has left me with poor balance, tight hamstrings, and an old lady shuffle. Walking past shop windows, I catch myself looking elderly. The reflection I get is my mother at 92, wearing her mammoth white Easy Spirit runners, wobbling across the carpet in the Assisted Living dining room. I'm not prepared to go gently into my senior years just yet, certainly not lurching — and definitely not wearing Easy Spirits. Time for action.
My physical therapists recently added a personal training business. Great idea, I thought. The on-site trainers have the advantage of working alongside the very therapist who knows your history, which means that, you know, they might not hurt you. Plus, the clinical environment is focused on healing rather than on Spandex and S'well water bottles. Far less intimidating than those pilates studios where the women look like they work out with the International Body Building Association. Those gals terrify me.
I prepared a list of my goals in advance knowing they would ask. Goal #1 — walk like a twenty year old. I want to put some strength in my stride. A little pep in my step. A little giddy-up in the gait. And…well, that's it, really. (I'm not by nature a goal-driven person. Okay, Goal #2 — I want to live to 100 and look good doing it.)
Neither am I much of an athlete. I hid in the high school locker room on volleyball days, hoping to escape the scorn heaped upon me by more adept players and the gym teacher — a woman who elevated torment to an art form. I tried jogging once but it was more fun to skip — and I broke my ankle. I liked the Jane Fonda aerobic era until I joined a gym with huge mirrors and suddenly realized that, not only am I short, but I look ridiculous in leg warmers.
As predicted, at my first appointment the trainer asked, "What are your goals?" Standing before me was a handsome young man, maybe mid-30s, muscular, arms like a stevedore, glowing with good health. I'll call him "Gary." And there I was. Old enough to be his grandma. A little too heavy. A little too saggy. A little too creaky.
I sucked in my gut and tried to look fit. And taller. I mentioned "core strength" to impress him. "Hop up on the bench," he said. It wasn't so much a "hop" as a slither. And let's face it, sitting on an exam table with your feet dangling over the edge erases any "cool" you think you might have walked in with.
"Let's see, your chart says, knee issues, sciatica, posterior tibial tendonitis, flat arches, Achilles heel. What else?" I was starting to get depressed, like the first time I slipped orthotic inserts into my shoes and understood, well, it's downhill from here.
"Let's watch you walk," said Gary.
I stumbled along the carpet, away and back to Gary. Bad start. (The soles of runners always catch on carpets, don't they?)
Next "we" tried a couple of mobility tests. Gary set up a low barricade and demonstrated how he wanted me to step over it, touch my heel to the floor, and then step back on the same foot, all the while holding a long bar across my shoulders. Warning. Do NOT try this at home. This exercise is designed to throw you totally off balance in utter embarrassment. "Don't worry. I got you!" says Gary. He calls it the "hurdle test." I call it the, "Let's see if the old lady can step out of the bathtub without toppling" test.
After that, Gary asked me if I could squat. IF I could squat. Ha! I got this one. I've practiced at exercise class. I bent my knees and thrust my derriere back as if about to sit, and I'm thinking, "See? I can get pretty low!" Nope. Not what Gary was after. "Let's try again with this bar held straight up over your head." What the heck? "And now turn sideways for me. Let's see it from the side." Alright, now he's torturing me. I don't know about you, but my figure goes all pear-shaped bending over, butt stuck out there somewhere, doing the port-a-potty squat. Not a flattering pose. And holding that bar just makes everything go all spasmy. Good grief. Can it get any more humiliating?
"That's all I need to see," says Gary.
OKAY. NOW WHAT THE HECK DOES THAT MEAN?!?!? He's got all the information he needs about my limitations? Or that he's simply had enough of watching this old lady contorting like a hippo giving birth?
Or maybe he's of the same ilk as my gym teacher and those Amazons at the pilates studios, metaphorically stuffing non-athletic nerds like me into lockers. Where's the sport in it? Why bother -- it's too easy.
"Great," said Gary. "We'll work up a program for you and have you come back next week. You'll be working with Karly."
Thank goodness. Maybe Karly will be a nice girl who respects a grandma-type with groaning knees and flat feet — like me. I'll wear my new Nikes. You know, just to look athletic.
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