“It’s very important to have the right clothing to exercise in. If you throw on an 
old T-shirt or sweats, it’s not inspiring for your workout.” ~ Cheryl Tiegs

I am a writer, and it’s a well-known fact that we writers never break a sweat if it means we have to exercise. Most of my days, when I am not searching for an excuse to procrastinate, are spent at a computer keyboard. I have never been into physical exercise unless you count the up and down movement of my mouth while talking or eating, most often in tandem. Although at different times in my life I have felt the need to ‘get with the program,’ I can honestly say I don’t have those urges anymore. I no longer donate my money to health clubs in order for a membership card to sit in my billfold until it expires. Or dies.

The last time I was in a gym, it took less than five minutes for me to take in all the young, cavorting members and became conscious of my state of under-dress. I was wearing a timeworn University of South Carolina T-shirt, circa 1962, the year I would have graduated had I not wasted all my time collecting fraternity pins. The gym shorts I wore that day had once belonged to Babe, which is to say that either he used to be much smaller or I am now much larger. Yikes! Let’s not go there.

I cringed the minute I stepped inside that oversized den of stinky sweat and throbbing tendons and saw the throng of well-turned-out women dressed in gymnastically correct leotards and coordinated thongs. At that very moment, a sudden craving for serious chocolate dropped down on top of me as if it came straight from God. I high-tailed it out of there quick as you please and headed for Sweet Mama’s Bakery where they don’t give a hoot how I’m dressed. If God had intended for me to bend over, I told myself, I’d be growing diamonds in my garden instead of pansies. 

That same night, Babe, my good humored, patient husband, lifted the lid on a pan of Southern fried chicken I was cooking for supper. “Hell-ooo,” he exclaimed, “I’m guessing another health club just bit the dust!” The dirty look I gave him took the place of a less than ladylike digit gesture. 

Babe has always supported my infrequent urges to eat nothing but cabbage and kale for seven straight days in hopes of losing a pound or two. He claims to like kale even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is. On our last anniversary, the last of the big-time spenders gave me a new bicycle instead of the ten days at Canyon Ranch for which I had repeatedly hinted. What a guy.

It is true that I have joined many health clubs in the past, always thinking I’ll regain some resemblance to the size-eight I used to be. A writer friend of mine once joined a gym following a New Year’s Resolution, and being a humorist of some note, the first question he asked was, “Has anybody ever died in this place?” 

The trainer with a mouth full of Chicklet teeth assigned to give him the nickel tour didn’t bat an eyelash. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in any other place,” she quipped.

His question and her response gave me pause. What was this silly notion of mine all about anyway? Why had I ever heeded my nagging inner voice when it shouted, ‘No pain, no gain.’ Was it about staying healthy or was I just grasping at straws hoping to reclaim a portion of my youth? At my age, there aren’t many portions left.

When I am even older and my bones have turned so brittle that they clack like a bad-fitting set of false teeth, and my hair has turned white and wiry and falls out in clumps, I might experience some remorse. I may regret having spent so much of my life in front of a computer keyboard instead of straddling a stationary bike. But until the dawning of that day, I’ll ride my little old lady’s bike every now and then and keep working my jaws up and down hoping for a trickle down result. The bad news is it won’t restore my youth; the good news is I don’t need to wear fashionable workout clothes Not in my neighborhood.