(One of my columns from The Beach Reporter 10/22/92. Still going to classes 25 years later!)
The other day I was quivering and sweating through a new class at the health club called “sculpt and abs,” and it dawned on me: I was there voluntarily, of my own free will. In fact, I was actually paying a monthly fee for this torture. Wouldn’t I rather be eating pastries?
Your mind starts doing weird things when you are on your 5,000th stomach crunch. You start thinking about how nice it would be to just settle comfortably and plumply into middle age. You realize you are fighting a losing battle with gravity. You would kill for an apple fritter.
People used to be able to age gracefully. Now there are white-haired women in my exercise classes and on the Stairmaster – on level ten, no less. Whatever happened to soft, cushiony grandmas with bosoms the size of a shelf?
Now they are all in exercise classes. They wear bright pink or purple leotards and tights. They are not baking pies or knitting in their rocking chairs. They are making the rest of us look bad. Continue reading