Jello, weights, and the rude truth

I recently joined a weights class.  I've had gym memberships before, but was notorious for fizzling out after a few weeks.  Plus, even with the mandatory orientation, I never quite knew what I was doing.  But then I heard Dr. Oz mention the rude truth that at my age, I'm burning about 200 calories per day LESS than I use to, and for no good reason other than apparently I'm losing muscle, which adds additional validation to the statement that Life Is Not Fair.  So, says the good doctor, I need to build up that dwindling muscle, particularly CORE muscles, whatever those are.

Concerning upper body strength, on scale of 1 - 10, I've probably hovered around Minus Two.  The most pushups I remember doing in one set was 30 and that was using the "girl" method, meaning on my knees rather than my toes.  On my toes I can barely do two, if that.  Each spring I unveil my upper arms and assess the damage.  Remember school-teacher-arms?  The arms that jiggled whenever she wrote on the chalkboard.  I have NEVER taught school, but I have the arms.  It's not pretty.

My strategy now is to pay lots of money and take an actual class.  It's cheaper than a personal trainer and hopefully will get me over there.  I had the option of a women's weights class, or a senior bone-building class.  I qualified for either, but opted for the first.  I was concerned that I'd be the oldest one; however, I seem to be right in the middle age-wise.  It makes me wonder who's building their bones in the senior class.

Our feather-weight, whisper-thin instructor Patty, pops around the room, chatting, spotting us on the bench, tweaking our stance, posture, grip, etc, and reminding us to breathe.   This week was my first experience on the bench lifting a barbell.  I did 45 lbs, and later proudly told my son about it.

"The empty bar?" he said.

"Well yeah, but it was HEAVY!"  At least he didn't pat me on the head.

My most dreaded machine involves sitting and lifting weights up and down with my legs.  It's humbling to admit that so far I've kept the weight at ZERO and cringe and wince as I struggle to lift what can't REALLY be zero pounds.  No wonder I'm not a strong biker!  No wonder my thighs look like jello when I run.  Today Patty had me do 6 reps at 25 lbs, and then 15 more at "zero".  Just one set, thankfully.

So I'm committing to the long haul.  Running and weights.  And bicycling.  Till I die.  Or until I acquire actual dementia and forget.  Or until I just don't care anymore.  Thanks to Dr. Oz.  Thanks to my dwindling muscles.  Thanks to aging and all that unfairness in life.  By the time I hit 60, maybe I'll have added some actual weights to that bar, and to that dreaded leg-lifting machine.  And maybe the jello will go away.