(Trying something new with a reading of the blog as well. Click below for that)

Staring into the mirror last week, I studied the scene around me and thought “Hold this moment.” My dad’s reflection beside me, along with a dozen or so of his closest workout buddies, all of us marching next to our chairs as the Gap Band’s “Party Train,” (RIP Ronnie Wilson) rolled on. The class instructor, beloved and filled with the best lived-life stories, talked about this&that. The night before I’d hung out with my dad watching the last game of the World Series, no allegiance to a team except for a burning hope Texas would not win since that state has become to me a shitSHow of wrongness on most human-rights levels (sorry, Austin dwellers. I love your particular bit of Texas, but the politics…sheesh). So there I was the next morning, watching my dad as we moved through all manner of balancing and stretching, determination and free-flowing movement reflecting back at me. An intense wash of love splashed over me. A sense so strong, I felt it covering me completely. I held on. Every emotional fiber of YES, this is it. Remember this. My eyes got a bit stingy, breath ragged, which I pretended might be because of the leg lifts!?!? Underneath this tingly stuff was the realization that this was why I’m here, not just geographically, but planetary as well. That is all. This connection is everything. I glanced around at all his buddies, smiles (maybe grimaces), some seriousness, a bit of side chatting among the ladies in the back row. And there I was, beaming out while trying to keep up. If you’d have told me ten years ago that I would be a bonafide member of Silver Sneakers, my dad’s companion once a week, I’d have been surprised. In fact, I kind of was the first time he suggested I go along with him five-or-so years ago when Dennis and I were out for a visit. Thinking, what, me? Silver Sneakers, who?

At the time, Dennis and I were training for the NYC Marathon (his second, my fifth) and I naturally thought I was a badass runner whose fitness activities were more lunge-stretching against a tree after a 20-mile training run than leg stretches in a chair after a 20-minute march-in-place routine. Dennis, who at the time was involved in some sort of home-repair project at my dad’s, said something along the lines of, “C’mon, go. This is an excellent chance to hang out.” Reminding me that this wasn’t about the movement but the moment. So I did, walking into the class thinking, I’ll make the most of this by doing every exercise extra hardcore—a completely misguided thought since about halfway through, as Gina led a series of weight-lifting overhead moves—I understood that having taken 10-pound weights was a mistake. Because … well, see badass comment above … my arms were trembling and burning, my fae twisted with concentration. Jeez. By the end of the hour I was legit sweating, a whisper of humility blowing through me as we stepped out into the parking lot. My dad was moving just fine. I had maybe pulled something in my upper back from the too-heavy weights. Luckily I wasn’t running the marathon on my hands.

When the first Sunday in November arrived, we ran the marathon. (Sidenote: happy to see NYC back on the road tomorrow after celebrating last year’s 50th anniversary virtually.) That year, 2013, was a brutal marathon for me. The fifth and (probably) final. After Dennis and I split off from each other at around mile 17 on the Queensborough bridge, given he had more juice to pull ahead, I managed to finish the last few miles by scaring small children with my obscene mutterings (yelling? I think I saw an adult covering a small child’s ears) and might have screamed at someone on the sidelines of Fifth avenue for yawning. Or that was all in my head since hallucinations can often be part of the long-distance runner’s experience. I needed every drip of drive to get me over the finish line. When I did, I was probably happy (don’t really remember), I know I was relieved. I was unable to lean over to put on my street clothes after walking the one-half-mile-or-so required to get to the trucks (thank you UPS) holding my bag and out of the park. I remember hearing people yelling at folkx who were starting to sit down on the side of the road. “Don’t sit down! Walk it off! You’ll never get up! Your muscles will seize!” I kept on walking to Dennis and our meeting place at the Starbucks on Columbus Ave. Every step was like one of those weird movie camera shots where the object you’re aiming for gets further away as you move closer. I finally made it, looked through the window and saw him sitting, fully clothed, legs crossed(!!!) with a coffee chatting with someone who to me might have been Angelina Jolie since I was so incredulous he was able to do any of the things I was seeing through the window. I splat-catted against the glass and (again, in my mind) began to slide down leaving a trail of salt from my sweat-dried body. Shivering. He saw me, ran out, brought me inside and proceeded to help me become human again. Since then I’ve been a spectator at the NYC marathons (this year from a 3,000 mile distance).

Endurance. It’s what life offers. I’m happy to find that, and even though I agitate against/with it on many occasions, it feels like a just-right combination currently of being able to slow down and appreciate: What I see in the mirror. Who I see in the mirror. I’m a blue-haired senior fer crissakes (thanks, Overtone) having finally gotten the color I want on my head and the age aced crossing into 60. At Silver Sneakers marching along beside my dad, sitting next to him on the couch watching a game, sitting in our backyard sipping coffee together along with the occasional hair-trim since I became his barber during the pandemic, it’s all good. Nowhere better than here. Learning. I now use 5-pound weights during class and appreciate marching around a chair with the best of them, then I read about the runners and smile.