At the gym today, filling my water bottle at the drinking fountain, I nearly ran away. Sorry, I’ll rephrase that: I nearly hobbled away. Two stunning young women – peachy and cool in their Lululemon shorts and crop tanks– were in the weights area lifting. Me? I was about to start what my gym calls a “High Energy Legacy” class and what I call (with an expletive in front) a “Low Morale Misery” session. The young women were gorgeous and lean and strong. Meanwhile, before I even lifted a dumb-bell, I was weighed down with, well, at least one spare tire around my middle. My gym gear? Let’s just describe it as “retro” – trash-can leggings with a hole in the knee (my dog with sharp claws hasn’t yet got the hang of “down Lola, down”) and a baggy old T-shirt with a coffee stain on the front. My instinct was to run, no hobble, away from the torture chamber before the first lash.
Being the oldest person at the gym, the slowest, the least coordinated, the curviest, the most breathless, is confronting. The cool-dude instructor who’s clearly had an empathy bypass doesn’t help. But over the years I’ve paid for enough gym memberships and never used them to know that a good gym is the gym that you use, a gym that becomes a habit, which fits into your schedule and becomes part of your routine. And despite the intimidating kids in Lulus and the buff young guys in class, I actually go to this gym – and more than once a week. The weights I lift are light, the distance I travel on the spin bike (god I hate the spin bike!) is limited, and I haven’t lost much on the scales, but I drag myself to class and know I’m stronger for it and that I’m getting the exercise most doctors say is essential for women of a certain age.
What is my secret to motivating myself? I don’t. My hyperactive labradoodle Lola does. I work from home and, like clockwork, just before lunch, she is ready for a walk and bugs me until she gets one. In a stroke of luck, my gym, a 15-minute walk from home, runs most of its classes in an outdoor area and dogs are welcome. Lola watches with interest from the sidelines as I groan through class and then she gets to chase a ball in the park on the walk home. Two jobs knocked off in one hit.
Of course, you’ll need other motivating strategies if you don’t have a dog or a dog-friendly gym. According to Atomic Habits author James Clear, the people who appear to be “disciplined” actually are just “better at structuring their lives in a way that does not require heroic willpower and self-control”. Enlist a buddy to be your workout partner and set up a system of rewards for each other. Or find a class that you feel comfortable with; most gyms offer classes for older adults – for example, mine offers an “Osteo-Fit” class for the over 55s.
And here’s the thing I’ve learned over time as this habit has slowly become a fixture in my life: people are mostly nice. The young women at the gym in their cool gear and the buff guys? Almost always, they’re friendly. They’re not judging me, they’re focused on their own workouts, their own pain, and are up for a laugh about it all.
I can see now that those two gorgeous young women in Lululemon had all the wisdom. As I filled my water bottle, I eavesdropped shamelessly on their weights session. The woman in the hot pink crop-top lying flat on her back on the weight bench groaned excessively as she lifted a loaded barbell. Her friend, spotting for her, had little sympathy. “Gaslight yourself baby, it’s all in your head, the pain doesn’t exist.”
She was so right. It’s all about the stories we tell ourselves, about faking it until we make it. I’m not a hobbling middle-aged woman with a spare tire or two. I’m a strong, feisty, funny woman who is grabbing life with both hands and couldn’t care less what other people think about me.
And, next on my list: the old leggings and baggy T-shirts are destined for the trash; I’m in the market for some cool new activewear.
Stephanie Wood is a Sydney writer and author. Find her on Instagram or subscribe to her weekly newsletter.
photos: shutterstock
