Old flames are meant to stay that way: Old. And in the past. Revisit them and you're likely to be reminded of what caused them to become old in the first place.

Such was the case when I went back to yoga. At first, everything was perfect. I loved the poses. I loved the transitions. And I loved the focus on the breath, which helped me shut out the exterior world for the entire time. Wonderful.

But my body loved none of it.

I awoke the next morning remembering what ended my love affair with yoga years ago. Back pain. Deep, penetrating, pulsating lower back pain that sent nerves screaming down my leg and up my side. It took three days to go away.

Thus I found myself at a loss. Boot-camp was overkill. Yoga was out too. I spent the next week recovering. And trying to figure out what to do next. 

And then my super-fit friend, who teaches exercise classes and dances like no one I've seen before, invited me to attend a private cardio dance class she was holding for her daughter--who wanted her to lead a class for her and her friends to celebrate her 23rd birthday. It was too cute of an idea to pass up. And after knowing her daughter for so many years, I was happy to celebrate. And burn a few calories in the meantime.

So off I went, on a rainy Saturday morning.

Within minutes, my jacket flew off. My heart beat fiercely, and my muscles warmed up. I started sweating.

But not because I was doing repetitive sets of grueling exercises. And not because I was twisting myself into strange positions.

But because she had me dancing like John Travolta in Grease Lighting. And moving like sexy ladies, Gangnam style. And grooving to Adele and rocking to a Zumba tune.

And all the while, she was right there. Dancing and moving. Leading with a smile and a routine simple enough to follow yet challenging enough to keep me engaged.

Great exercise. Great music. No pain, No tear. No wear.

Just plain fun. Good for the body. Good for the soul...

And great for burning off that banana split from the night before.

I took a little detour today.

I went to a ninety-minute power yoga class. Instead of starting my second month of bootcamp.


I originally said I would stick with bootcamp for 12 weeks. But I didn't see changes as quickly as I expected. And while the feeling of accomplishment at the end of each session was great, I did not like the workouts.  I'm just not cut out for repetitive, continual, high-impact, shock-absorbing movements.

And I remembered how I always loved power yoga. As a physical exercise and as a mental workout.

So off I went to see what it was like after all these years.

I twisted, and stretched, held poses and balanced, and flowed from position to position in a bruising, soothing yoga class. My heart beat quickly, and the sweat ran off my face. Droplets dripped down my cheek and gathered at my neck. I relished the moments in child's pose.

And I discovered something along the way. Aging sucks. It really, really sucks. Years ago, it wasn't this tough.


But at the end of the yoga session, I felt relaxed and calm. Ready to sleep.

And it's not because the positions were any less taxing than the bootcamp exercises. Balancing on one bent leg, while holding the other across will make any heart beat madly and challenge any body's homeostasis. 

It's just a different form of intense physical exercise. A very, very different form.

Ergo I now face a decision: go back to bootcamp on Wednesday for another month, or go back to the only exercise I ever really stuck with and enjoyed--yoga?

I like yoga more. For my body and for my mind.

But I don't want to lose what I've gained at bootcamp. I need to be sure before I completely give it up. If I stop now, I don't think I'll ever go back to it again. I won't be able to tolerate another first week at bootcamp. When muscles and bones ached more than ever before. When I was so sore, it hurt all the time.

I need to make up my mind. Soon.

Today we played tag. In the park. Like children.


Very fun and very funny. When I was "it", the trainer taunted me to catch him. Little did he know I have been a die-hard Trojan fan for years and had my warrior moves on.

Naturally, I caught him instantly. And surprised everyone! Simple luck, but it was still a silly thrill. And it only lasted until I was being chased again. I ran as fast and as hard as I could to avoid being caught. Broke a sweat and panted out loud. Until I was "it" again.


It must have been a hysterical site: a bunch of moms chasing each other on the grass.

But we didn't care.

After an hour of punishing drills, sprints, dumbbell exercises and bruising core moves, we were thrilled to play.

For those last ten minutes, I felt like a kid again. Racing through the muddy grass, laughing and grasping for air at the same time. Everyone should do that sometime. Grab a robe and jump. Climb the jungle gym and go down the slide. Play tag in the park with a bunch of friends.

It was indeed an entertaining end to my first full month of bootcamp. I am no longer sore all the time. In fact, I am hardly sore at all.

I am stronger. Watch out.

For the first 59 minutes of bootcamp, I am miserable. I sweat. I grunt. I moan. Simply put, I hate it. I can't wait till it's over.

And then something happens at minute 60.

I feel thrilled and alive. And it's not just because the session is finally done.

For those few glorious minutes after the workout, I am high on natural chemicals released after a brutal workout. I am happy and proud. And feeling like I could it all over again. Crazy.

With Thanksgiving in two days, we are working out with extra fervor. We are paying in advance for all the stuffing and gravy and cranberries and apple pies we are sure to eat.

But how many calories can such workouts really burn? Maybe six or seven hundred at a time? It sounds like a lot, but in reality, one slice of banana cream pie will take care of that. And then what? It is way too easy to indulge and think I can consume without care just because I am working out so much.

The truth is, exercise does not give that much latitude. It makes you stronger and healthier and helps clear the mind. But it definitely does not allow for reckless abandon and wanton eating.

Unless you are an Olympian, or die-hard athlete, or exercise nut who spends several hours a day pumping and burning.

Than you can eat till the cows sing.

Missed bootcamp yesterday for a funeral of a friend's mother. A different kind of workout. Exercising the mind to find just the right words to say and just the right things to feel. Impossible.

Always tragic, never timely, funerals reinforce mortality. Not that I needed any reminders. After having lived more than four decades, I get it. It goes by quickly and ends in a snap.

So what's it all for? Mental exercise indeed. I'm beginning to think bootcamp isn't so hard after all. In fact, it's rather simple. Attend for an hour, do whatever the trainer says, then return home to collapse. No thinking required.

Only this time, I can't collapse. I have to return home to make a pecan torte for Thanksgiving dinner. My little contribution, oozing with calories and laden with fat. Hopefully all that sweetness will help me forget about living and dying. Or maybe...just maybe...it'll explain what it's all for.

For the first hour after every bootcamp session, I feel energized. Confident. Inspired to take on anything.

I'm working on bottling that feeling. So I can take it out and spritz it over myself throughout the day like expensive perfume.

Because the high feeling wanes. Soreness and fatigue take over. I am drained and wiped out yet too revved up to nap it off. It is a strange feeling indeed. Like I'm continually trying to catch my breath. And not quite succeeding. At least not yet.

I do feel stronger. The back of my thighs feel firm. When I flex my biceps, tiny muscles bulge a tiny bit. Small results but still. They propel me forward.

And I'm trying to get my eating right. I am told to add protein, reduce carbs, watch calorie intake and drink lots of water. This is not easy. It takes constant vigilance. Lots of effort. And willpower. Sort of takes the joy out of eating. I need to keep focusing on my purpose. That is, to get fit, get toned, fit better in my clothes, maybe even drop 5 pounds or so, get more energy. And fight aging.  No big deal.

Yesterday I made a decision to stick with this for 12 weeks. I read on various online fitness sites that it takes that long to see real differences. Afterwards, who knows? Maybe I'll continue. Maybe it'll get easier like everyone claims, and even become a habit I cannot do without.

Now that would be surprising.

It felt like an ant crawling down my face. From the top of my head to the bottom of my chin. Tickling my cheek. 

Only this was no insect.

It was a tiny bead of sweat. Building momentum, mass and speed as it trickled down and finally landed on my mat. Many more soon followed. Today was cardio day.

My heart raced, my lungs gasped, and my muscles nearly buckled. 

We sprinted. Forwards first. Then backwards. Then forwards again. Each time he yelled, "switch" we changed direction. Mind and muscle working together.

And all the while I was just trying to remember to breathe. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhaustion accomplished.

But then the trainer said, "Now we're going to bump it up a notch."

And he added all sorts of high-intensity exercises designed to keep our hearts screaming.

Our bodies moved for an entire hour with nary a rest. A sip of water here and there. A stolen moment to catch a breath. That's all.

At the end of the session, I sat on my mat. Recovering. Marveling. I made it through. Again. Knees quivering and body beaten.

And yet, there I sat feeling rejuvenated. Pumped. High on endorphins and all those other feel-good hormones released during serious physical exertion.

I could get used to this. Maybe.