My husband has been after me to do exercise in the gym’s pool as a means of alleviating some of the cramps and rigidity that come along with Parkinson’s. I have resisted because I a) don’t like to get wet unless a lot of sand and a mai tai are involved, b) would have to wear a bathing suit and might inadvertently scare someone to death, c) think that if God should look down on his creations and see twenty five or so old ladies jogging in place in the shallow end while shaking their booty to “YMCA” He might regret his six days of effort and send a lightening bolt down to blot us out.
My fate was sealed yesterday, however, when my husband accompanied me to my neurology check-up and the good doctor said “Why don’t you try water aerobics?” I pinched hubby’s inner thigh as hard as I could but it did nothing to stop the “Why don’t you ever listen to me?” lecture. “Doctor, I have been telling her to use the pool and try the sauna. I have told her it would be good for her. She won’t listen to me. Maybe she will listen to you!” Four eyes stared at me for a response. “I won’t be able to put my bra back on because I’ll be damp.” The doctor assured me that going braless for the ride alone in my car to get back home was not going to undermine that moral fabric of America. “I’ll get toenail fungus.”
Several further attempts to talk sense into my spouse and the doctor failed and I was made to promise to go to water aerobics at least twice a week. So when we got home I dragged out my gym bag and packed my suit so that it would be ready for today’s 10:30 AM jazzercise. I thought that I had arrived at the gym early but discovered that all the convenient lockers had been taken, so I was forced into the upper tier of lockers. I crammed in my stuff only to have one of those fights with my bra which insisted on tumbling out and getting stuck in the door when I tried to close it. I gave up, figuring at least I would recognize which was my locker by the dangling blue bra.
I debated about whether I should wear my glasses. If I wore them they would get splashed and be useless. If I did not wear them I would be wandering around nearly blind. I decided not to wear them. This was a good decision because the first person I saw was an elderly man in a speedo. I checked out the attendees. Two elderly men and twenty eight women aged 60 and above. They all had short beauty parlor hair and a look about them that warned “If you splash my hair I will get my posse to hold you under.” I smiled, hoping I was actually facing someone. A whistle blew ending the swimming lesson for toddlers that preceded us. I prayed that the chlorine in the pool was set on stun.
We waddled into the shallow end and formed up in lines. Now, even though I have Parkinson’s, I am pretty active and can actually raise my arms above my head. As we did jumping jacks I scanned my fellow water mates and noticed that the energy level was about that of canned tuna. Our young instructor was vigorously leading us as we jogged, jacked, boxer punched, crossed going left, crossed going right, did the hoola hoop, and worked ourselves into a frenzy of physicality. Well, I was in a frenzy — my colleagues were looking at me like I was setting a very poor example. Several picked up their water wings and left. After about half and hour two young men came out to the pool with trays of drinks. Ah! The mai tais! No, it was only water. Many of the ladies took a long break to sip — I kept kicking up my legs and touching my ankles. Finally it was over and thirty over weight ladies ran for the locker room like so many wapiti at a lion infested watering hole.
On the drive home I reviewed the experience with an eye toward lessons learned: a) I need expensive water shoes and a new bathing suit, b) I must line up in the row at the back so that I my tendency to wander won’t cause another four-way accident, c) I should leave the bra at home.
