DUMBASS AGING BROAD LIFTS WEIGHTS

 A friend of mine, another cancer survivor, shared how he wished to be back to his former self before chemo and surgery, but that he has realized--to his cost--that that ain't gonna happen. I totally shared this with him, but only after I fucked my right arm lifting weights.

Here's the scenario. Annie's energy is coming back, not in a roar but rather more like the soft, gentle lapping of surf on a beach. I picked up my game, did more of the insane "peppy-peppy" DVDs until I was up to 26-30 miles per week, walking and doing aerobics. Then I thought--though I suppose "thinking" is giving it too much credit--let's get heavier weights. Let's get those flabby arm muscles shaped up. Get strong, you aging broad. Don't give in. (When has that ever helped anyone, unless you are a British prisoner of war escaping from a German prisoner of war camp?)

Being the Amazon tart that I was, I ordered a series of 12 DVDs by this former marine sargeant, I think, with hefty work outs of 90 min. apiece. And might I add, no breathers in between the exercises. "Down on the floor! Lift those weights, baby, up, up, up! That's the way, that's the way!" I considered throwing one of the weights at my screen to shut her up, but thought better of it. And to be fair, I only did 15 min. at a time as I didn't want to "overdo" it.

(Disclaimer--I don't look like this, yet...)

THEN, in case I needed more encouragement, I ordered this massive, plastic, flexible white board to keep track of my workouts. It came with a nifty little eraser and 4 different colored markers! Green for gardening, I thought: blue for minutes on weights; and red for steps on my naggy Fitbit. I was set to go!

I made it through about 5-6 weeks weeks, and I can see I petered out around the 25th of July. That's when my right arm began to rebel and get shirty.  I scaled back but continued with the peppy-peppy lady and stretchy bands, plus gardening like an insane woman from an obscure French play. Finally ("Finally!") around Aug. 6th I gave in.

"Darling, I fucked my right arm," I told Rick. "It really, really hurts!" He commiserated, made me some tea, and got out the heating pad. What I really needed was an opiod, but we didn't have any of those. 

As I speed towards my 73rd birthday, I just have a few words of advice: "You are not Jane Fonda. Not a professional beauty, a weight-lifter, or a yoga instructor. Keep moving ("Else they throw a sheet over you," as one elderly lady once said in our church) but don't overdo it. Like I did.

What's ahead? Who knows. Doctors' appointments, therapeutic massage, PT, and maybe more. It actually, seriously hurts all the damn time. So, don't do what I did. Be smarter. Wiser. And don't forget to eat out at Alina's because your arm hurts, their food is the best, and they serve Wither Hills Sauvignon Blanc.  Also pray to whichever saint governs right arms.