What I Want My 75-Year-Old Self to Thank Me For

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my 75-year-old self.

She’s coming whether I like it or not, so I figure I might as well start preparing for her.

And let me tell you—she is demanding.

She wants strong legs. A strong core. Good balance.

She wants to carry her own luggage through the airport AND put it in the overhead bin BY HERSELF—without looking around for some nice 35-year-old man and giving him the “Would you mind?” eyes.

She wants to get in and out of a sports car without requiring a crane, a spotter or the fire department.

She wants to golf.

She wants to hike.

She wants to ski.

She wants to kayak.

Basically, my 75-year-old self has absolutely no intention of acting 75.

Good. Neither do I.

Apparently I’m the Oldest Person Who Can Do This

Yesterday, my physical therapist came up with another one of his little torture exercises.

He put me belly-down on one of those enormous medicine balls, with my hands on the floor in front of me and my legs stretched straight out behind me.

Basically a plank—except apparently a regular plank wasn’t sufficiently unpleasant.

Then I had to walk my hands forward while the ball rolled underneath me until it reached my ankles.

Then walk myself all the way back.

Ten times.

Somewhere around number six, I started questioning whether I had accidentally offended my physical therapist at some point during our relationship.

But I did all ten.

When I finished, he gave me a big high five.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Then he said:

“You’re the oldest person I’ve ever had do that exercise.”

Well.

There went the moment.

Excuse me???

Couldn’t we have just stopped at the high five?

Now, I’m a little sensitive about this whole aging thing.

Okay. Maybe more than a little.

So naturally, my brain didn’t hear:

“Wow, you’re incredibly strong and capable.”

My brain heard:

“Congratulations, Grandma!”

He could have said most experienced.

Most mature.

Most seasoned.

Hell, I would have accepted:

“Most impressive woman currently carrying a Medicare card.”

But oldest?

That word stung for about five seconds.

And then I realized something.

Wait a minute.

I wasn’t the oldest person he’d ever had try the exercise.

I was the oldest person he’d ever had DO IT.

Ten times.

So I’ll take the damn high five.

Next Week I Go Back to Isaac

Next week I’ll be eight weeks out from back surgery.

And there’s something I’ve been waiting for since this whole recovery process started:

I get to start training with Isaac again.

I’m excited.

I’m also a little scared.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I’m a LOT scared.

There’s something mildly terrifying about returning to your trainer after eight weeks away when you know perfectly well that he remembers what you could do before surgery.

But then I remind myself of the first time I walked into the gym to train with him three years ago.

I was terrified then too.

Actually, I was probably more terrified.

Back then I couldn’t stand up from a fitness bench without pushing myself up with my hands. I couldn’t do a squat without hanging onto something. We started with five-pound weights.

And I remember spending the first month thinking:

“People actually PAY someone to make them feel like this?”

Apparently they do.

And apparently I became one of them.

Three years later, I actually miss it.

This may be evidence that exercise is good for the brain.

Or possibly evidence that something has gone terribly wrong with mine.

My Physical Therapist’s Biggest Problem: Me

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been able to do 45 minutes of physical therapy followed by an hour of water aerobics twice a week.

On two other days, I’m doing an hour of PT-approved exercises in the gym followed by an hour-long group fitness class.

And I am absolutely delighted.

After weeks of having people tell me:

Don’t lift.

Don’t bend.

Don’t twist.

Don’t do that.

Definitely don’t do THAT.

I’ve started getting pieces of my old life back.

My physical therapist recently told me he’s more concerned about trying to hold me back than he is about my progress.

I’m pretty sure this was not intended as a compliment.

I believe it was physical-therapist code for:

“This woman is exhausting.”

He’s probably hiding exercises from me at this point.

“Nope, Debby. We’ve never heard of squats. Those aren’t a thing anymore.”

My Definition of Fitness Has Changed

For years, I thought fitness was mostly about what you looked like.

And yes, let’s be clear—I still want to look good.

I’m not suddenly that enlightened.

But these days, I’m much more interested in what my body can DO.

Can I get myself off the floor?

Can I balance on one leg?

Can I climb a hill?

Can I lift something heavy?

Can I walk all day while traveling?

Can I put my suitcase in the overhead bin without needing assistance?

Can I golf 18 holes?

Can I ski?

Can I kayak?

And perhaps most importantly:

Can I get into a really low sports car and get back out without rolling onto the pavement and pretending I dropped something?

These are the things I’m training for now.

I’m Not Training for 75. I’m Training THROUGH 75.

I’ve spent plenty of years worrying about the number on the scale.

Now I’m thinking about a much more important number.

75.

I don’t want to arrive at 75 and start shrinking my life because my body can’t keep up with the things I want to do.

I want to arrive at 75 with strong legs, a strong core, good balance and enough muscle to keep saying YES.

Yes, I’ll golf.

Yes, I’ll hike.

Yes, I’ll ski.

Yes, I’ll kayak.

Yes, I’ll go on that trip.

And yes, thank you very much, I can put my own damn suitcase in the overhead bin.

That’s why I’m doing the physical therapy.

That’s why I’m going back to the gym.

That’s why I’m going back to Isaac even though I’m nervous.

That’s why I’m doing ridiculous exercises on giant balls while a physical therapist stands there apparently keeping statistics on the ages of his patients.

I’m not exercising because I’m trying to be young.

I’m exercising because I intend to be really, really good at getting older.

So someday, when my 75-year-old self is throwing her suitcase into an overhead bin, climbing out of a sports car, grabbing her golf clubs and heading off to do something that somebody thinks she’s too old to be doing, I hope she takes a moment to think about the woman who did all this work for her.

And I hope she says:

“Thank you.”

Although knowing me, she’ll probably look in the mirror, smile and say:

“Oldest one, my ass.”