It’s Not An Old Lady’s YMCA Anymore

3cb050fafa80ad3bf2fe1d84831c62e6[1]Maybe it never was. The last time I was there was over 12 years ago when the kids were eight months old. Even then all I wanted was to go sit someplace that wasn’t our home with them. But, they’d never let me leave the nursery. Bawling, grasping at me, I became content to sit with my back against the wall while they played with toys that weren’t theirs. That was no reason to keep a Y membership.

A few months ago, Jody and I returned and bought a family membership. I had broken my foot in Tae Kwon Do and thought that I should check out other alternatives.

Today, it’s not the treadmills, ellipticals, row machines, all Motion Trainers, stair steppers, cardio machines and more that keep me coming back.

It’s the Boot Camp class. I can’t keep up with anyone. I’m the old lady trying to beat the other old lady in the gym who is wearing a pink shirt and who has declared that she is 70 years old. Forty others are also in this class doing the same rugged workout of sports drills, weights, jumping rope, boxing, circuits, and interval training.

I’m always happy when the class is over. I’ve survived. I’ve made it.

All shapes, sizes, and ages are welcomed at the Y. This makes it comfortable for me. Even though I’m chasing down the old woman in pink.

I wonder if this was the way the Y always was? Or did it evolve like those bawling eight-month-olds who are now 13?

I’m glad I found my way back. I’ll be staying.

 

 

 

 

 

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