Basic Re-Training
In an attempt to undo years of stress and lethargy, our author sets out to find a workout routine that will stick.

By Mimi Harrison

When I was in my 30s, I did a class of calisthenics followed by 45 minutes of aerobics four times a week. I wore a leotard and footless tights and a T-shirt tied up high on my tight little midriff. Although I've had gym memberships sporadically for the past 15 years or so, I gradually gave up the studio for the treadmill and weight circuit. That's what I did when I went. Putting on my sports bra and leggings at home, I would get a euphoric feeling, then procrastinate until it was too late to go…or it started to rain…or the news came on…or… __________________ (fill in blank with your favorite excuse.)

Two weeks ago I turned 57. I think I accept my age with equanimity. My mother raised me to approve of myself and generally I do. I'm not a beauty, but I like the face I see brushing its teeth every day. However, the past few years have brought some vexing and unexpected things: chronic physical problems that require ongoing medications, including steroids, and others that can cause weight gain; stress from divorce and a protracted period of unemployment. The young sylph who lost her appetite at the first sign of distress became the middle-aged woman who soothes herself with Kozy Shack pudding and SnackWell's cookies. I'm not fat, but I carry 20 pounds too much for my slight frame, all in my short torso. It feels like I'm constantly holding a toddler on my lap. With my thickened middle and skinny legs, I think I look like Babe Ruth — a potato on a very thin set of pins. I hate it.

I want to get fit, but worry that it might be too late. How should I do it? I have lots working against me besides my age and weight: I am clumsy, and last winter was diagnosed with mild asthma. I don't have an anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee (I'd love to tell you it happened attempting a late-season summit at Everest, but I tripped over a hat rack while vacuuming my living room rug). But I'm sick of squeezing into size-14 skirts, and the weight exhausts me. Plus, it inhibits me. The only person who gets to see this body these days has to have a stethoscope. In a fit of conviction, I decided to commit myself to exercise — in gym classes, with a trainer, doing yoga and Pilates — to try to find something I like enough to get back into a groove.

Not Ready for Prime Time

The first thing I wanted to try was gym studio classes, so I called Fitness First, a big, two-story gym on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda. I told Laila Linden, of membership services, that I'd like to start right off with a week of boot camp. Laila tactfully convinced me to try a gentler approach, which turned out to be sage advice. I was to learn that I am shockingly unfit.

My first class, on a Monday, was Body Sculpting, which sounded like a fine way to start. Cathy Hannon, aerobics coordinator, taught. I immediately liked the class because it was composed of a miscellany of normal women — with a variety of body types (although everyone — except me — was fit). I felt comfortable, competent and not at all self-conscious. The basic setup uses a step from step class as a weight bench. Cathy led us in arm curls, leg lifts and other basic movements using free weights and body bars — weighted poles that look like broomsticks — for maximum benefit. The class was demanding, but not grueling; still, my endurance was very low. I yearned to leave after 30 minutes, but stuck it out for the hour. My only struggle was with leg lifts from an inclined position; I simply couldn't do them. This body was not about to be sculpted immediately. I might aim to be a sleek Brancusi bird, but I was definitely starting out a fleshy fertility goddess.

I walked out of the gym feeling elated. I knew I'd throb all over the next day, but I was taking this venture a day at a time. My philosophy is that every place it hurts is being affected; besides, that's why God invented Advil.

Tuesday dawned blue and beautiful. I was sore, but not staggering, and my energy level was good. I headed to Bethesda, got to the gym and took my place in the kickboxing class. I loved the idea of kicking, and I loved the idea of boxing. I'm an ex-cheerleader who can still get a gam far up toward her shoulder, and taking jabs at myself in the mirror sounded like fun. It wasn't. The workout consists of jabs and crosses that feel good considering they aren't landing on somebody's chin, but there were shuffles and pivots too. That was potential disaster for my knee — I have to avoid any torque when I move my left leg — and, for the first time since last winter, my asthma snapped on; my breath whistled in my ears. When we had to skip rope, my arms felt gloved by bowling balls, my feet felt shod in cement. The class was half over, but I had to quit. To make up for copping out, I did a level, steady mile on the treadmill, went home and opened my asthma inhaler for the first time.

I knew this was the wrong approach to getting in shape. I should have started out very gently and gradually revived my sleeping muscles. But I'm impatient and impulsive. My knee was holding up well, my inhaler worked, and the spirit was willing.

Yogilates? Not Something You Order at Starbucks

When I got out of bed on Wednesday I could hardly walk. My legs were palsied, my arms were leaden; every move was agony. I called the gym to say that I couldn't make it in. Cindy Flores, the receptionist, answered the phone and was a very sympathetic mother confessor. She patiently encouraged me to try to do what was on my plate for the day: Yogilates.

Although it sounds like the latest promotion from Starbucks, Yogilates is a gentle, non-aerobic session of floor exercise that combines simple yoga with the masterful movements of Pilates mat work. Jill Blumberg took us through an hour of stretching and bending. Her detailed instructions to the class were clear and easy to follow — not always a given in an exercise class. The movements were not easy, but they were kind on the body and tonic to my knotted, complaining muscles. I was able to do everything comfortably — even the ab work and leg lifts. After the class I felt relaxed, extended, and refreshed. I was still a little sore, but I felt healed.

Basic Training Dropout

I woke up Thursday feeling fine, and figured I was ready to be GI Jane: Basic Training class. How can an intelligent woman be so stupid?

First, let me make a few remarks about breasts. This is a family magazine, granted, but breasts are a part of life. I have been endowed with very ample breasts. Now, aerobic exercise of any sort, particularly that designed for the male physique, is torture. You men who are chuckling right now, think of it this way: running with testicles the size of grapefruits.

When I arrived for Basic Training, the class was engaged in shuffling around in a circle at a pace my feet could not follow, let alone my lungs. I made a pathetic attempt to keep up, but my feet seemed stuck to the rug, my lungs were inside out, and my breasts, well…I literally lasted a minute. I was embarrassed, but I wasn't deterred. If I couldn't keep up with a Parris Island pace, I could at least do something to keep this carcass moving. I went upstairs to the treadmill and worked on my aerobic capacity for an hour.

Yoga: A Kinder, Gentler Approach

Yoga is a discipline I've always thought would work well for me. I've always been quite flexible. (In high school, I was able to thrust my bent elbows backwards and make them clunk. Quite a party trick!) But I'd always been hesitant to start, mainly out of ignorance. I didn't know how to jump in or how the progression of levels works. I also did not understand the spiritual element of yoga. I know that its true essence is grounded in ancient discipline and a serene philosophy. Would sitting in on an established class be like walking in late to temple or church? I needn't have worried. The Unity Woods Yoga Center on Cordell Avenue in Bethesda offers all levels of classes. Although there is a sense of decorum — don't wear perfume or show up with jangly jewelry or an ostentatious, fashionable tracksuit — a yoga class is not a high Mass or Kol Nidre, and nobody is an outsider in any sense of the word.

I started sensibly, with a class called Gentle Yoga. Because the studio is located on the 16th-floor penthouse of Triangle Towers, it offers a soothing, panoramic view. Jill Cahn, the instructor, lead the class of mainly gray-haired, over-upholstered baby boomers like me — through an hour and a half of ancient asanas, or postures, which allowed me to work parts of myself that hadn't been moved in years. I learned the Triangle position, the Downward-facing Dog, the Warrior and others. That day was my 57th birthday. The session went by quickly and, as we sat on our mats at the end of the class and everyone put their hands together, I inadvertently invented an original asana! As class and teacher all bowed and murmured "namaste," I applauded, thus striking the "Clapping Idiot" posture.

My next session was a Level I class, not very different from the gentle session. The instructor, Anne Wutchiet, has the perfect carriage of a dancer. Her body is perfect — toned limbs and a firm bottom, her stomach as taut as a tambourine — and when she demonstrated postures she was as true as the hands on a clock. The pace was very comfortable, but I found the instructions somewhat baffling. They were detailed and referred to parts of my anatomy that seemed remote and hard to isolate, let alone move as directed. I began to feel as if yoga might not be for me after all. I need alignment desperately, but I felt antsy. I always feel like I'm wrinkled and messy, syncopated somehow, perhaps too much for this discipline. Maybe I'm not meant to be aligned. That night I had a long talk with my friend Beth, an ex-dancer and devoted yogini. She said I was making excuses and had to try. After we hung up I got into bed, and lightning struck. A spasm of pain shot across my shoulders; I could hardly move. Only Advil and hot baths kept me comfortable for the next 24 hours.

The interval of one day gave me time to have a conversation with myself, and I decided that Beth was right. Like a boyfriend reluctant to commit, I was making excuses. There will always be a reason not to go, not to try, not to persevere. Eventually the spasm relaxed, and, when it did, I noticed something. There was nothing visible, but I could feel a slight change in my carriage. Just a week of moving my body had caused a subtle shift in position. My shoulders were straighter, and, posture improved, I could feel my abs contract. It was tangible proof that my body is a system of reciprocity, full of parts that are meant to work together. My next yoga classes, with Giulia Mainieri, were so much easier; I could feel what she meant when she told us to move the outer thigh farther in, or the back ribs higher. At the end of each class, came savasana, a brief interval of silence. Flat on our backs, a bolster under our knees, a pillow under head, a blanket over our middles and a soft, silken pillow over our eyes, the class was guided through focused relaxation by the instructor. By the end of every class I was at peace, and felt melted, soft as a Dali watch. Yoga is a habit I intend to keep.

Battling the Bettys

My mother had a cousin named Betty Katz, a jolly woman with a squinty smile. She also had a fascinating feature my lithesome mother did not. Betty had upper arms that were fat and loose, and they swung with every movement. They were like sleeves on a kimono. I always called them Bettys.

My name is Mimi and I'm developing Bettys.

My next audition in the world of fitness was at the Washington Sports Club on Democracy Boulevard in Bethesda. Elizabeth Tousley was my personal trainer and showed me some ways to get those Bettys back in line.

A registered nurse, Elizabeth was a good match for me. I was apprehensive about having a male trainer — young, slick and over-muscled. Elizabeth is young, to be sure, but she is patient, soft-spoken and kind. She is also in awesome shape. She began by taking my medical history and blood pressure; then we got to work. The first session gave her a chance to see what I could do and what I needed. The looseness in my upper arms was obvious, as was the thickening in my middle. It was also clear I needed to improve my alignment.

Elizabeth warmed me up on the treadmill (that I could easily talk while vigorously walking was encouraging to her, which depressed me somewhat. I mean, I can also chew gum while doing the dishes). But a trainer takes nothing for granted, so Elizabeth started me off slowly and monitored every move. My balance is not that great, and, when asked to jump from the floor to a step about 3 inches high, I executed the move with the grace of a piece of heavy machinery. But I found I could do most things just fine. I stretched and squatted, with and without free weights, and was able to do the more difficult option of most of the moves, if one was offered. When I lifted free weights to work my arms I lay on an exercise ball instead of a bench, which required my abs and glutes to steady me. Very cool how that worked! After an hour and 10 minutes, Elizabeth and I shook hands and scheduled more sessions for the week.

My following sessions were challenging but not daunting, and the soreness I felt was righteous, not debilitating. It was a luxury to have a one-on-one experience to correct my form and guide me through my paces. The ache I felt in my triceps — the arm muscle that sags into trouble — told me that I was working toward tightening those Bettys into oblivion. After a week, there was a balance ball kit in my cart at Whole Foods, so I could continue to work at home.

The Gold Standard: Machine Pilates

Developed in the early 20th century by Josef Pilates, whose childhood frailty moved him to found a technique to strengthen the body's inner core and promote flexibility, the program that bears his name is a gentle and effective way to improve balance, strength and posture. Once the province of dancers and cognoscenti, Pilates is embraced today by athletes, physical therapists, healthcare providers, fitness trainers and — oh yes — legions of red-carpet skeletons. Although mat Pilates exercises are very popular, working one-on-one with a certified trainer on Pilates-designed equipment is a luxury. It is not a bargain — prices for personal attention from a full instructor hover around $70 to $80 a pop — but it is a unique opportunity to learn your body as you work its component parts.

My classes were at the Body College on Falls Road in Potomac. Owner Mike Wright led me through my initial session on the Cadillac, the aptly named basic apparatus. A leather-topped bench not unlike a doctor's examination table, the Cadillac is fitted with springs, bars and trapezes that flip down to offer support and resistance. There is no grunt factor to Pilates; rather, the client is focused on correct placement of spine, hips, abs and pelvic floor and, with the help of the instructor, reteaches the body its outer — and inner — posture. Mike is a patient teacher. A former body builder, he has lost 40 pounds of bulk and beef since converting to Pilates, and looks none the worse for the change. My body problem was obvious to him — that egg-on-legs imbalance — and my session included badly needed centering and stretching. It is truly a glorious feeling to reach and extend. I could almost hear my spine stretching and popping open like the pleats in the crook of a plastic straw. If I had a Cadillac in my living room instead of a couch, I told Mike, I could look like Gwyneth Paltrow.

From the Cadillac we moved on to the Universal Enforcer (all names coined by Herr Pilates!), another piece of flat apparatus that allows the client to stretch and bend against the tension of underlying springs. With Mike's hands-on help, I perfected my plank (straight back and bottom while on all fours) and learned my spine one vertebra at a time. I left the studio every day standing straighter and walking tall. My body was often sore the next morning, but just enough to remind me that it had been doing work.

***

I'm sitting now in my gym clothes, having just returned from another session with Elizabeth. I also met with the doctor who prescribes the medication that puts on the weight and saves my life. We decided that I'll exercise — diligently — for three months and see if that helps me drop some pork and get back my tone. If not, we'll reevaluate my meds. Today I started a diary, in which I'll record my exercise times and everything I eat for the next 12 weeks. I have a sticky mat, an exercise ball and 8-pound free weights. I have the tights and the T-shirts, the shoes and the bra. I have, if I'm lucky, 20-some years ahead of me. Here I go.

Mimi Harrison is a Washington writer. Her work has appeared in the Washington Post, National Geographic Traveler, National Journal, Time and she has written for "A Prairie Home Companion."