Cindy on March 17th, 2009
“And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,
And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.” –William Wordsworth
With a nod to the Lenten season and Michigan’s struggling economy, Read the Spirit is running a series this week on “life’s necessities” and how to remain balanced in troubled times. This series includes an essay I wrote three years ago when I was adjusting to my new status as an empty nester. The piece originally appeared in the Literary Mama anthology, and was awarded 2nd prize in Detroit Working Writers’ Annual Spring Competition last May. Please click here to read the piece. –CL
Cindy on February 26th, 2009
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were? — Satchel Paige
Whether we use Nice ‘n Easy to hide our graying temples or refuse to show our drivers’ licenses, most of us secretly hope to appear younger than we are. But why is it so hard for smart women to age honestly? Last month, I polled several of my middle-aged female friends and colleagues, asking if they lie about their age. Since I promised not to use their real names, the answers that came back to me were candid â and as eye-opening as Olay’s best anti-wrinkle serum. Read more in this week’s MIDPOINT column in The Oakland Press.
Cindy on April 29th, 2008
At the urging of three very limber middle-aged friends, I finally enrolled in a beginner’s yoga class at the local YMCA. Everyone who practices yoga seems to believe that the ability to twist oneself into a human pretzel is good for the mind, body, and spirit — and that it keeps you from shrinking in your elder years. I’m all for that, and I’m all for anything that’s purported to alleviate stress and heartburn. In fact, one of the aforementioned friends told me that yoga practically changed her life. How could I resist?
Since I am a bilateral hip-replacement patient, however, I can’t begin any exercise program without a sense of caution. And so, before I picked a spot on which to unroll my spiffy new yoga mat from Target, I approached the instructor and informed her of my limitations. Poses that involve looping my legs around my neck, for instance, could result in the painful dislocation of my bionic joints and spoil the class for everyone.
“Not to worry,” the instructor said, beaming with the inner glow of the enlightened. “Just listen to your body, watch what you’re resisting, and do only what you’re comfortable doing.” This was a huge relief, as was the fact that I wasn’t the only inflexible 50-something person in attendance.
So far, I’ve tried three sessions. The word “resistance” pops up often (just like my knee cap), and there are many times the poses feel so awkward that I’m tempted to stop, roll up my mat, and lurch homeward. My inner couch potato keeps telling me that yoga might be too much of a strain, and perhaps not worth all the trouble.
Aside from riding my bicycle daily, I’ve never been good at physical exercise or competitive sports. (If other people like to win at games, I say go for it — and leave me alone with a good book.) When I’m challenged to push beyond my physical abilities, I tend to get bored or give up, which is why I’ve always preferred desk jobs.
But so help me, I really don’t want to end up like my arthritic 77-year-old mother, whose dowager’s hump makes her look even older, and whose energy level is more like that of 97-year-old. Just last month, my mother’s doctor told her (again) that a basic exercise program would add years to her life and to her looks. Yet Mom doesn’t seem to want to make the effort.
So I’m going to ignore the little voice that keeps telling me that I’m no good at yoga. Rather than stare at the television every night, I’m going to practice stretching and breathing and downward dogging. I’m going to get a handle on this yoga thing. Wish me luck. Namaste. — Cindy La Ferle
