Ugh. Muscles are so much work. Right now, I’m walking, doing
yoga, and (in the summer) swimming to try to beat mine into shape, but they’re
fighting back. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: I’ve been doing 90 minutes of yoga at least twice a week
for the past eight months. You should be getting stronger! Why is downward
facing dog still a challenge? And what about warrior 3? Come on, muscles!
Muscles: We’ve been clinging onto these old bones for more
than half a century. We’re tired, and we’re definitely ready to let go and sag.
Me: No! No! No! I don’t want old lady arms – and that belly –
forget it! You can still maintain some semblance of sleekness if we work
together.
Muscles: Come on, you're built like a female version of Ichabod Crane. What kind of results do you expect, here? Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
Me: I'm not looking for Miss America, but I don't want to scare small children when I take my youngest - who won't be five until next week - to kindergarten.
Muscles: You won't be taking him anyway. You'll be at work. And to the high school students you teach, you looked ancient as soon as you by-passed 30, so forget about it.
Me: Well, some days I'll get to pick him up. And there I'll be, surrounded by moms about the age of my oldest kid. I have to at least make an attempt, here.
Muscles: (snickering under their breaths) You go ahead and
keep working out. On your days off, we’ll backpedal as fast as you can try to
build us. It’ll be fun.
Me: (still fighting resignation). Sigh. I guess I just have
to work harder.
Muscles: Good luck, Ichabod-ess.
