I have been avoiding heavy objects for a while. Struggling to open jars. Undeniably weakening. Those who know say that lifting weights is essential to keeping bones and muscles strong as one ages — advice I had not yet taken seriously. I was intimidated by the machinery in gyms, afraid of hurting myself, and shy about asking for help. I told myself that gardening, swimming and my general state of activity were enough. They weren’t. Time to take action!
To support my New Year’s resolution to get stronger, I joined a sportsplex. Huge weights, attached to steel bars, were hoisted, mostly by men, to the tune of much groaning, and then dropped to the ground with a crash. It was terrifying! I used the pool and the gym’s circuit equipment, but didn’t give the weights more than a glance.
About this time, a series of 10 sessions at a studio dedicated to weightlifting for women came up at a charity auction. I bid and won. But after peeking in the window and seeing high stacks of weights, rows of black steel racks and other scary equipment, I tried to give away the passes to my daughter — she wasn’t having it. Finally, I decided to risk a visit.
The door opened directly from the snow-packed street into the cozy studio. Discordant music blared, and a perky young woman greeted me. She set up my account and noted that I just needed to add a particular app to my phone, and I would be able to choose from 50 classes a week. Nothing to it! For her, obviously— not so self-evident for me. I got her to add the app and sign me up.
At the first group class, women of various ages and body types were warming up. All were at least two decades younger. We paired up to share stations and spot each other. We were instructed to lift ever-increasing amounts of weight while lying on our backs, bending forward, or hoisting them up from our shoulders. Really? A few classes later, one participant hoisted 200 pounds. Astonishing! I was relieved to learn that she is a competitive weightlifter — thankfully not on my New Year’s resolution list. I managed to lift 65 pounds.
The next morning, I couldn’t turn my head either left or right. At the next class, I dropped down to 55 pounds. “You are supposed to add weight at each class,” chirped the instructor. “Not if I want to move the next day,” I countered. Notwithstanding my lack of progress, I left each class feeling terrific.
Last week, the regular trainer — the one with the prominent lateral muscles, tight buttocks, and long painted fingernails — was ill. How those fingernails don’t impede lifting weights remains a mystery. An enthusiastic and energetic young man replaced her. “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees blasted out from the speakers. Decades separated the trainer from me, but we were immediately aligned by the beat. Like me, he also loved “I Feel Good,” the 1964 hit by James Brown.
I couldn’t keep my feet still. While the others followed instructions, I bopped around the gym holding 20-pound weights in each hand. This, albeit at a more sedate pace, had been the final exercise from the previous week — possibly another one which had stiffened my neck. This time it was effortless.
The trainer laughed and undertook a few of his own dance moves. My fellow weightlifters indulged me with smiles but did not join in. They had not danced their nights away under mirrored disco balls. The music of their eras wasn’t as much fun, I thought. Or perhaps I just didn’t recognize it — I had been too busy working and raising a family.
Although professional weightlifting isn’t in my future, I am no longer intimidated. Thanks to the trainers and welcoming women at the studio, I know I can lift without hurting myself. I load up “Staying Alive” and other dance music onto my playlist and join the muscled men at the sportsplex.
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