In my most recent story, Jim at the Gym, I mentioned that the time of day I generally go for a workout is also when the more mature segment of our society drops by to get a sweat on. Older people are wonderful. I say that because my dealings with my fellow gym mates has taught me that with age comes a profound grace and a keen sense of self. It is the grey and blue haired members of my gym who are the first ones to greet me with a "hello" or a "good morning".
In the three weeks I've been a gym enthusiasts, I don't think anyone under 60 has even attempted to make eye contact with me. God knows they are not threatened by my not so bulging bicepts or left feeling inadequate when they see me naked as I exit from the shower. That being said, I do make certain that I tell anyone, who cares to listen, that I love to take really cold showers. I have my pride to consider.
This morning, following a not so brisk 1000 meter swim, I was sharing the hot tub with an older lady. We had a nice chat and as she was leaving, she suggested I move over to the jet on the far side, as it was the most powerful and provided the best therapeutic experience. I thanked her and slide over. Boy, was she right. The water flowing from that one jet was heavenly. I doubt any whipper snapper aged 59 or younger would have ever shared that secret with me.
A few minutes later, two older gents joined me and they immediately joked about how I had the best jet in the hot tub. I guess maybe it is not such a secret after all, at least not amongst the ageless members of the gym.
The older of the two men told me he has been coming to this gym for almost thirty years. His wife died several years ago and he said he would be lost without the companionship and sense of belonging that came with being a member of the gym. He also said that the gym was the best hospital in the province. By that he meant that the physical, mental and spiritual benefits of exercising the body, mind and soul has helped him stay healthy and avoid trips to the real hospital. Apparently, his two grown sons have yet to discover the real and intrinsic advantages of going to the gym and he doesn't understand why they knowingly choose to compromise their health. I suggested that, perhaps in time, they will come to see what their dad already knows. He hoped so. He offered to pay for their membership but even that generousity has not swayed the younger men from burning the candle of health at both ends. Youth really is wasted on the young.
In a way I'm sort of glad that this man's two sons will not yet be joining my gym. I don't really relish the thought of more nameless and faceless middle-agers going around the gym as if they have a weight bar stuck up their butts. His sons would probably be two more 30 or 40 something year old guys who would be taking up space in the locker room and giving me the silent treatment. Would eye contact and a nod be too much to ask from the pre-senior crowd? It seems that for most of my peers common courtesy is akin to going to confession or public speaking. I'll keep trying to be pleasant and nodding in their direction just in case. At least my neck muscles are getting a work out.
The younger crowd can sure learn a lot from our seniors about politeness and generosity. There's one thing I won't be sharing with that younger crowd though and that is the location of that dreamy jet in the hot tub. That's just between me and my senior friends.
Thankfully, everyone is required to wear swim suits while in the hot tub. There's something just not right about having it all hang out while in such a small body of water that is shared by so many people. Also, what about if I were naked and just left the hot tub? How would I explain my..... appearance? It would be extremely difficult to fool everyone by saying that the water is really cold in there today. I have my pride to consider, remember.
Perhaps when I become a senior and finally mature, I'll wise up and I just won't give a damn about my pride and whether I'm wearing a swim suit or not. When the day comes that I clear out the general swimming session at the Aquarena because I show up poolside in just my birthday suit, I will have a good excuse. After I'm arrested, I'll tell the cops that I've been a member of the gym for 30 years and that I'm old. Hopefully, that will get me off. I'll also be sure to tell them that the water was really cold. We seniors have our pride too.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Jim at the Gym
I'm just starting the third week of my latest adventure. It may prove to be my most ambitious project since my retirement of just over a year ago. It certainly tops my Costco experience, which was ill-timed and short lived, as it lasted just ten days. A more recent endeavour, of which many of you are all too familiar, was a four week and two day penal sentence at the Confederation Building. It was a self imposed imprisonment and certainly does not reflect upon the nice people that I met during my short time there. I chose to loose the shackles when it became apparent that I was a victim of double jeopardy. I had already served a twenty one year sentence for second guessing the justice system. Suddenly, there I was, back chasing the so-called bad guys, when I was no longer sure where the line, that supposedly separates the crooks from the do-gooders, falls. I've beaten that one to death over the last year in several stories, so I'll let that sleeping dog lie.
My latest and greatest preoccupation is to go to the gym. Maybe I shouldn't be comparing it to the jobs I had at Costco and with the provincial government, as exercise is supposed to be a lifestyle, not an occupation. After years of sitting on my ass, believe me, getting to the gym is a heck of a lot of work. It is certainly much tougher than cruising the aisles of Costco, waiting for elderly ladies to try and hide a case of toilet paper under their sweaters. It's also way more difficult than sitting in my cubicle on the 4th floor of the West Block, looking at my computer screen while trying to remember which of the dozen or so passwords got me into the program I was trying to use.
Exercise is the unheralded cure-all for just about every affliction. It's somewhat ironic that it is also the activity that we give up when our life situations become increasingly difficult to manage. That was certainly the case for me. During the last 7 or 8 years of my policing career, my responsibilities grew and my commitment to being a cop grew along with them. My gym bag was my constant companion at at the office. That was the problem, it just stayed in the office and never headed down the hallway to the well equipped gym that was situated in our building. I believed I was just too busy. I was shooting myself in the foot and not even realizing it.
I'm actually enjoying the sweat and pain that comes with asking my body do things it hasn't done very often these last few years. I can actually feel some of the jiggling as it becomes a little more toned. I've never really been one to regard weight as a definitive measure of fitness. Despite this, I did know what I weighed prior to beginning to exercise, so I was curious as to what I would weigh after two weeks of daily aerobic workouts. Holy crap, I was actually three pounds heavier! Sure, muscle is heavier than fat, but come on! I'll keep at it in the hopes that something gives on the weight front in the next few weeks. If not, I'll think about giving up.... (at least cutting back) on the oatmeal raisin cookies I have every day at my Starbucks office.
I ususally come to the gym just after Lynda and the kids are gone off to work and school. It's not overly busy there at that time. There are a few thirty something ladies, but the majority of the gym goers at that time are older gents. I assume that, like me, most of them are retired. I often hear chatter in the locker room about the expected increase to CPP and OAS or how hockey is just not the same as it was when Hull and Howe were the stars of the NHL. Now that's Bobby and Gordie, not Brett and Mark. Remember, my gym going compatriarts are old.
The gym has great facilities for us retired folks. There is a sauna and a hot tub for us to regenerate our aching bodies following a workout. Well, just this morning, I was telling my hot tub buddies how the circulating water was therapeutic for my stiff back and how the hot water also soothed the inflamed haemorrhoids I have been experiencing of late. Suddenly, I was alone in the hot tub. My friends said they just remembered they had to meet their wives for shopping. Apparently, they are headed to Costco because it's a great place to get toilet paper.
My latest and greatest preoccupation is to go to the gym. Maybe I shouldn't be comparing it to the jobs I had at Costco and with the provincial government, as exercise is supposed to be a lifestyle, not an occupation. After years of sitting on my ass, believe me, getting to the gym is a heck of a lot of work. It is certainly much tougher than cruising the aisles of Costco, waiting for elderly ladies to try and hide a case of toilet paper under their sweaters. It's also way more difficult than sitting in my cubicle on the 4th floor of the West Block, looking at my computer screen while trying to remember which of the dozen or so passwords got me into the program I was trying to use.
Exercise is the unheralded cure-all for just about every affliction. It's somewhat ironic that it is also the activity that we give up when our life situations become increasingly difficult to manage. That was certainly the case for me. During the last 7 or 8 years of my policing career, my responsibilities grew and my commitment to being a cop grew along with them. My gym bag was my constant companion at at the office. That was the problem, it just stayed in the office and never headed down the hallway to the well equipped gym that was situated in our building. I believed I was just too busy. I was shooting myself in the foot and not even realizing it.
I'm actually enjoying the sweat and pain that comes with asking my body do things it hasn't done very often these last few years. I can actually feel some of the jiggling as it becomes a little more toned. I've never really been one to regard weight as a definitive measure of fitness. Despite this, I did know what I weighed prior to beginning to exercise, so I was curious as to what I would weigh after two weeks of daily aerobic workouts. Holy crap, I was actually three pounds heavier! Sure, muscle is heavier than fat, but come on! I'll keep at it in the hopes that something gives on the weight front in the next few weeks. If not, I'll think about giving up.... (at least cutting back) on the oatmeal raisin cookies I have every day at my Starbucks office.
I ususally come to the gym just after Lynda and the kids are gone off to work and school. It's not overly busy there at that time. There are a few thirty something ladies, but the majority of the gym goers at that time are older gents. I assume that, like me, most of them are retired. I often hear chatter in the locker room about the expected increase to CPP and OAS or how hockey is just not the same as it was when Hull and Howe were the stars of the NHL. Now that's Bobby and Gordie, not Brett and Mark. Remember, my gym going compatriarts are old.
The gym has great facilities for us retired folks. There is a sauna and a hot tub for us to regenerate our aching bodies following a workout. Well, just this morning, I was telling my hot tub buddies how the circulating water was therapeutic for my stiff back and how the hot water also soothed the inflamed haemorrhoids I have been experiencing of late. Suddenly, I was alone in the hot tub. My friends said they just remembered they had to meet their wives for shopping. Apparently, they are headed to Costco because it's a great place to get toilet paper.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Want Some Hash?
Thanksgiving Day - what an awesome holiday, unless you're a turkey or, in Newfoundland, a piece of salt meat. What is that stuff made of anyway? It really doesn't matter, because it's the pearl in the oyster that is the feast we yummingly call Sunday Dinner, Jigg's Dinner, or Cooked Dinner. In our house, we call it 'Mudder's cooking a feed."
My now deceased father-in-law, Ron, was famous for floating his hefty plateful of food in a sea of gravy. He was given considerable teasing about that at every sit down. Inevitably, someone would exclaim "Hey Ron, gravy is not a beverage, ya know." I'm not one who should be throwing stones when my plate is also made of glass. Actually, when ever there's a feed, a prefer to opt for the plate with the sideboards. It probably looks more like a huge bowl, something that could easily be used to bathe an infant or two. Anything cooked in a pot with salt meat and then smothered with gravy deserves to be eaten in abundance and I'm only happy to oblige.
In Canada, our official Thanksgiving Day is always the second Monday of October. Everyone I know actually celebrated by eating the turkey and fixins on Sunday, which was yesterday. I've lived in several other provinces, but I think that is pretty much of a Newfoundland thing. Many of us have a big sit down meal every Sunday, so to change that tradition to a Monday once a year seems senseless.
The mainlanders are celebrating the taking in of the harvest and to thank god for the bountifulness of his blessings. Unless you consider stubby carrots and diseased potatoes to be gifts from above, then it is my feeling that we Newfs are most thankful for the family and friends who are able to join us for each and every meal we have. It doesn't matter whether it's meat and potatoes, toutons, fish and brewis, cod tongues, caplin or weiners and beans, the company makes the meal. I've always hated to cook for just myself or to eat alone. There's something sad about that.
The Yanks have their Thanksgiving Day in November because their better weather means they don't take in the crops until many of us Canadians are knee deep in snow. I'm not sure if our American friends are actually celebrating the harvest or whether the fact that the Mayflower landed the Pilgrims on the continent rather than on the desolate, wind swept piece of rock called the New Found Land. Can you imagine if the Pilgrims had that famous meal while sitting with our Beothucks, instead of the Wampanoag Indians, way back in 1621? Turkeys would have been able to rest easy for the past 400 years. The animal that would symbolize Thanksgiving and grace every table in North America would be whatever one it is that gives us that delicious salt meat. In reality, it wouldn't really matter what animal we choose to "honour", as long as our Thanksgiving Day feast includes some type of meat. Even pigeon or squirrel would taste awesome, just as long as it comes with a beverage and just as long as that beverage is gravy.
Time to go, Mudder's cooking a feed of hash. I'm so thankful I live in Newfoundland.
My now deceased father-in-law, Ron, was famous for floating his hefty plateful of food in a sea of gravy. He was given considerable teasing about that at every sit down. Inevitably, someone would exclaim "Hey Ron, gravy is not a beverage, ya know." I'm not one who should be throwing stones when my plate is also made of glass. Actually, when ever there's a feed, a prefer to opt for the plate with the sideboards. It probably looks more like a huge bowl, something that could easily be used to bathe an infant or two. Anything cooked in a pot with salt meat and then smothered with gravy deserves to be eaten in abundance and I'm only happy to oblige.
In Canada, our official Thanksgiving Day is always the second Monday of October. Everyone I know actually celebrated by eating the turkey and fixins on Sunday, which was yesterday. I've lived in several other provinces, but I think that is pretty much of a Newfoundland thing. Many of us have a big sit down meal every Sunday, so to change that tradition to a Monday once a year seems senseless.
The mainlanders are celebrating the taking in of the harvest and to thank god for the bountifulness of his blessings. Unless you consider stubby carrots and diseased potatoes to be gifts from above, then it is my feeling that we Newfs are most thankful for the family and friends who are able to join us for each and every meal we have. It doesn't matter whether it's meat and potatoes, toutons, fish and brewis, cod tongues, caplin or weiners and beans, the company makes the meal. I've always hated to cook for just myself or to eat alone. There's something sad about that.
The Yanks have their Thanksgiving Day in November because their better weather means they don't take in the crops until many of us Canadians are knee deep in snow. I'm not sure if our American friends are actually celebrating the harvest or whether the fact that the Mayflower landed the Pilgrims on the continent rather than on the desolate, wind swept piece of rock called the New Found Land. Can you imagine if the Pilgrims had that famous meal while sitting with our Beothucks, instead of the Wampanoag Indians, way back in 1621? Turkeys would have been able to rest easy for the past 400 years. The animal that would symbolize Thanksgiving and grace every table in North America would be whatever one it is that gives us that delicious salt meat. In reality, it wouldn't really matter what animal we choose to "honour", as long as our Thanksgiving Day feast includes some type of meat. Even pigeon or squirrel would taste awesome, just as long as it comes with a beverage and just as long as that beverage is gravy.
Time to go, Mudder's cooking a feed of hash. I'm so thankful I live in Newfoundland.
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