At 70, I Finally Found an Exercise I Love

Let’s just say it: I’m not athletic. Not now. Not in the past. Won’t be in the future. Growing up, my dad occasionally golfed. My mother’s sport was cooking. My only encouragement toward physical activity was: “Go out and play.”

I wanted to do cartwheels and splits like the school cheerleaders, or be Joy Derdiger, the girl in gym class who could climb the ropes and touch the rafters. Watching her scurry upward, she seemed otherworldly, an alien species from mine. But my cartwheels were clumsy and I could barely hold onto those ropes. Coordination just isn’t in my gene pool. The last time anyone in my family got any real exercise was when my grandparents ran from the Russian pogroms.

I was 26, in 1977, when Jim Fixx’s The Complete Book of Running became a mega bestseller. Like everyone else, I felt compelled to buy a pair of running shoes. Out I’d go, huffing away, clutching my Walkman in my hand while listening to Fleetwood Mac singing Don’t Stop.

I liked that running was an individual sport — just me. Nobody would get angry if I missed a throw or failed to swing a bat, but I never loved it. I’ll rephrase that: I hated it. My favorite part was when each run was over; those running shoes ended up in the back of my closet. For a while, I felt guilty that I’d bailed on something so good for me, until 1984, when 52-year-old Jim Fixx died of a heart attack while running.

My friend Lorra was the one who convinced me to join a health club. She said weight rooms were the perfect place to meet men. Bonus: They’d be men in good shape!

Turns out, sweaty and grunting wasn’t my type, but counting out my reps and sets, I was amazed to watch my skinny upper arms develop walnut-sized muscles that soon became little avocado-sized muscles. I’d show them off to anyone who asked and plenty of people who didn’t ask. Check out this bicep! But after a couple years I realized I was no Arnold Schwarzenegger, about to star in Pumping Iron. Despite my efforts, my muscles never got beyond avocados.

After that came my yoga period. Oh, those downward dogs and pigeons. Mine were never impressive, but as the teachers were constantly reminding us, I was on my own journey. I just wished my journey was more graceful. My best yoga move was savasana, the last position of any session; that’s when you get to lie on your mat like a corpse.

I spent the next decades jumping back and forth between weightlifting and yoga, knowing myself well enough to say an immediate no to step aerobics, Zumba, or hot yoga. Regular temperature yoga was hard enough.

Then I turned 70 and my focus changed. The younger me was hoping to improve my body; now I was just hoping to keep it from getting worse.