Out on a Whim

by Dawn Fuller

As I age, I have a body that is falling faster than a meteorite caught in earth’s gravity.  If my body falls anymore then I am going to have to wipe my cleavage whenever I go to the bathroom. When I look in a full length mirror I realize that my legs are getting so big from swelling caused by sitting around that they could be declared old growth forests.  So I joined a women’s only health club because if I want to be surrounded by the testosterone smell of sweating males I would do my sons’ and husband’s wash and I haven’t done that in years.

Before I can begin my journey into a health club life I must shop for an exercise outfit. I go into sports store and a sales clerk, who weighs all of 90 pounds, brings out some cute spandex outfits and says, “These are the latest in exercise attire.”

I eye the red jumpsuit she brought out and tell the sales lady, “The last thing the world needs is a 56 year old 180 pound salami doing jumping jacks to Justify My Love.” The sales lady doesn’t get the joke. “Well, thongs are very popular,” she sniffs. I decide to humor her and try it on. When I lift my arms, in jumping jack fashion, the thong went up my butt and almost gave me an instant hemmroidectomy.  I ended up buying a cotton and flannel jogging suit and fled from the store and reluctantly went to the health club…

I have decided that aerobics was designed by a doctor who wanted to make sure he was never out of work. When I started doing jumping jacks I almost gave myself a concussion when my left breast flew up as I went down and hit me so hard in the face that I thought I had given myself a black eye.

After warm-ups the “real” fun began. A cute young instructor talked into the cordless microphone and told us what to do. Only I couldn’t hear a thing she was saying because my hearing isn’t what it used to be and the music was too damn loud. So I watched what every one else was doing and decided to mimic them. This is when I noticed an interesting phenomenon. The young women who didn’t need to be there because they are so thin they wouldn’t cast a shadow on a sunny day are following her instructions with no problem. People who are in my age range though, well, we looked at each other with the blank stares of the Night of the Living Dead zombies.

I panted, sweated, and stumbled along with the other middle-agers as I tried to figure out what to do. By the time I caught on, the instructor was on to the next routine. By then I was thankful I had the foresight to make  adult diapers a part of my attire because bladder leakage is clearly a problem for anyone whose body is doing things that puts internal organs into a Mach 2 overload.

When the instructor got out the skipping ropes, I skipped out. I couldn’t jump rope when I was 12. Why start now? I went over to the weights. Another instructor came over to show me how to use them. There is a whole circuit that I have to do. I start the circuit. The weight area is surrounded with mirrors. Why? Do I really need a mirror to tell me that my arms have gotten so fat that they move like a simulation of the earthquake ripples- I saw an educational program that predicted Los Angeles is going to fall into the ocean from similar undulations-No.? I would not need to be here if I wanted to know such things.

I went to the weight area and used a machine for firming my butt. Problem is that every time I did a lift I farted. So I had to time my lifts to the bass boom of the music in the aerobics class so no one would hear my emissions. All that coordinating made me nervous which gave me gas and made me fart more.

On down the weight machine row I went, exercising parts of my body that thought muscle tone was being able to reach high C in choir. By the time I got to the back strengthening lifts, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I was envisioning the looks of envy that would be cast my way when, in a few months, I would look so buff you could shine a car with me. That is when I wrenched my back and couldn’t straighten up.

Looking like Quasimodo searching for cockroaches to eat, I inched my way back to the dressing room.  After I showered and dressed, I lied to the staff and told them it had been a great experience and I couldn’t wait until I came back tomorrow. I wasn’t going to tell them I hurt myself and get one of those Well What Do You Expect After 40 Years Of Inactivity stares.

When I got home I decided that I deserved a reward for having worked so hard and suffered so greatly. The Black Forest cake didn’t take away the pain, but you can’t have every thing in life.

by Gwynne Hunt

Whenever I hear the ocean I quote Tennyson’s, I must go down to the sea again’, you know, ‘the lonely sea and the sky?’  Things pop into my head like that but the frightening thing is that as I get older they don’t stay in my head; I blurt them out like an excited child with the right answer.

People stare; no doubt embarrassed by my poetry, my rhymes and my jokes that fall from my lips in a Tourettes-like way; sharp static bursts that surprise the listener and me. Sometimes I even apologise. ‘Oh goodness’, I say, ‘did I say that’? The word ‘goodness’ coming form my trucker mouth? It’s like grandma curled up and died inside my young vital mind.

I said ‘yikes’, the other day and ‘oh my word’. I ran to the mirror and was shocked to see that not only did the old lady live in my head but she had invaded my face as well. When had I started to look like Aunt Bea instead of Barbie? Finding her in the corners of my mind has been too much to bear.

She says things like, ‘dear’ and ‘honey’ to women half her age and she pats people on the hand an awful lot. She is comforting this old woman, and kind. I hate kind, old women. What the hell is she doing living in my heart and my brain? If I could get her alone I might be able to extricate her with delicate surgery but she is never alone; she is with me so deeply rooted in my psyche I think an operation is too late.

I think if the old lady dies, I will perish as well. The ‘there, theres’ and the ‘oh mys’ are bad enough but she tells terrible jokes that poke through her childhood memory like clichéd thorns. I heard her tell a friend she was going to stay at the Bucanneer Motel when she went to the Island. When her friend said, ‘where is that?’, she, the old woman said, ‘ right under her Bucking Hat’.

I didn’t know that bad joke had never left my brain; like an unwanted tenant just lying in wait to burst out at an inappropriate moment naked, and embarassing the landlord. Everytime someone says ‘do you want a clean sheet for your bed?’. she responds, ‘I want two sheet’ (in a French accent). I get so upset by her stupid jokes that I have to leave the room and then I have to try and find a way to eradicate her babble from my head.

The old bat’s happy. I know that because she sings in the car all of the time; ‘my boyfriend’s back and there’s going to be trouble’, in a high pitched nasal voice. Poor old wretch, her boyfriend hasn’t been back for forty years. She wails out show tunes and pop songs. When I hear her, I shut her up, close my mouth and try to look professional and stern as I drive down the road. I think if my mouth is closed, I look younger.

I know, I know I should embrace growing older, becoming a crone and all that. I did for awhile. It was fun in my late forties and early fifties to be wise and sure of myself. A mature woman. But while I have never put an emphasise on my looks I’ve now realized, since I have lost my good looks, that it is hard. It is very hard. It’s hard to admit my vanity. I never thought I was.

But you see I was a vital, young, attractive woman and now-well, now I am old and unsure of my looks.. I’m aware of my age, , how saggy I am and I realize that I am no longer in the girl-loop. I’m surrounded by lots of younger women and they do ask me how I feel, like I might expire at any moment.

How do you feel? Do I look so bad that they are inspired to ask me how I feel? I always smile politely and answer with some surprise that I am fine thank you. I’m afraid that the old lady is going to get tired of being polite and say, ‘How do you think I feel be-atch.’

I’ve discovered that younger women are not interested in old women. They tell me their stories and troubles and ask how I feel but they don’t ask how I am. They don’t ask me stuff that young women ask each other . . .

I always knew my face and body would get old but I never thought my mind would age. But the old lady is talking out more and more. She’s mouthy, senile and, well, I think she might be downright crazy. Yesterday, she stepped out her door and said out loud, “Spring has sprung the grass has rizz I wonder where the birdie is”. I tried to stop her but she went on, ‘the bird is on the wing but that’s obsoid, the wing is one the boid.” I looked around in panic. Was anyone listening?

My granddaughter looked up and smiled. Bless her heart, she loves the old lady that lives in my head. But even she tells me to fix my hair and has asked, ‘are you wearing that outside?’

It seems that grandma cannot wear sweatpants to walk her to the school bus stop. Like the old lady inside my head, I guess I must try harder. I didn’t want to be like that when I grew old. I don’t want to put a lot of effort into how I look and I can sure as hell tell you, you won’t find me joining any old lady hat clubs-no matter what colour the hats are.

She constantly tells corny jokes. It is so odd, she can’t remember what day it is half of the time but she can remember bad jokes her dad told her when she was six. She remembers the words to every pop song between 1960 and 1980. Too bad neither one of us can sing. She remembers fun and laughter and is not afraid to be who she is.

I, on the other hand am struggling to stay quiet and poised because I am ashamed of looking and feeling old. She doesn’t care. ‘Bring it on’ is her motto. She is getting louder everyday and I know I am on the cusp of a new beginning. I think she has been old longer than me. It’s an insane struggle, a triptech dance between the old woman, me and the young woman I used to be.

I always thought I would grow old gracefully. Well, that is until the old lady started kicking her motorcycle into gear and screwing with my thoughts. That is why you see me silent, afraid to open my mouth for fear the Hell’s Angel will be let loose .This morning, she woke up singing, ‘the sun will come up tomorrow’ and when she went for a walk she sang, ‘kickin down the cobblestones, looking for fun and feeling easy’.  She ran into a lady on the street and said, ‘good morning star shine’ and told an older gentleman, ‘don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy’.  I need help here. I need a straighjacket around my exploding brain. Grandma’s going to get run over by a reindeer soon and then maybe I can think like a young person again.  Maybe I can do an exorcism and get free of her loving embrace.  She’s making me look ridiculous. Oh, oh, here she comes again.