A poster hangs in the lobby of my fitness center reminding anyone who stops to read it that being active helps us stay independent longer. I suspect my eyes linger longer than most. It reminds me of my parents.  

My dad played baseball, basketball, water-skied, and coached. But he rebelled against physical therapy after his knee replacements and hip surgery. He took to watching "Lawrence Welk,"  "I Dream of Jeannie" and any sports, preferring that to getting out.  

My mom never played sports but she embraced physical therapy after her knee replacement and took water aerobics in her 80s. She remained active and was able to get around with only a cane until the day she died, six months shy of 90. 

When my surgeon recommended low-impact exercises after my hip replacement, I listened. Three days a week, I hit weight machines for an hour and swam for a half hour. Four days a week, I walked my dog and biked.  

When it rained, I climbed on my elliptical.   

But in 2020, after seven years of this routine, I was 60, bored and itching to try something new.   

Many of my friends swear by yoga, and one managed to talk me into trying my first fitness class as an adult.   

“Relax your big toes.”  How am I supposed to do that?  

“Now relax your second toes … your middle toes … your fourth toes … and your pinky toes.”  You have got to be kidding me.   

“Relax your eyeballs.”  Okay, I can do that.  Or am I just rolling them back in my head?  

“Now relax the back of your eyelids.”  What? I can’t even feel the back of my eyelids.  How can I relax them? 

It wasn’t for me. 

Two days later, I tried a spin class. I arrived 30 minutes early. Still, there was only one bike that didn’t have a body sitting on it or a towel draped over to “save” it. 

At 5:30 p.m., the teacher walked in, turned the lights off, and blasted music. I yearned for earplugs. I wanted a good workout, but I didn’t want to go deaf in the process. 

I could tell the teacher was barking orders at us, but I couldn’t make them out over the music. I tried to follow her lead, alternating between standing and sitting while pedaling.  

Every few minutes, I mopped my face to keep sweat from stinging my eyes. I took comfort from those who were sitting when they should have been standing and who were sweating as profusely as I.  

A thousand times I wanted to quit. I am not exaggerating. 

I had no way to track how much time had elapsed. My greatest fear was that we weren’t even halfway through the class. 

When I could not endure another second, I dismounted and tried to slink out of the room.  I fumbled with the doorknob for what seemed like a full minute before I was able to abscond.  

As I passed by the front desk, my eyes searched for a clock. I was mortified to see that it was 6:28. Two more minutes, and I wouldn’t have been branded with a scarlet “Q” for “Quitter.”     

But there would be a next time, because now I knew I could endure the full hour of torture. And, surely, I had burned off at least a tiny lump of cellulite. 

The following Thursday, when I arrived 35 minutes early with a water bottle, towel,  magazine, and earplugs. I draped my towel over a bike and sat outside the room to read.  

When the instructor approached, I headed toward the room. But I was engrossed in a story and continued to read as I walked. Never a good idea.   

Having passed through before, I knew the doorway was low and that at 6-foot-2 I would have to duck, but I underestimated how much ducking was required and whacked my forehead hard against a concrete block. 

A woman who heard the thud and saw what happened offered to call 911 and bring me ice. In pain with a rapidly-growing lump, and embarrassed, I insisted I was fine.   

When I started pedaling my bike squealed. The instructor asked me to switch to the only other available bike, but this one didn’t have a drink holder.   

The angel who offered to call 911 offered up her bike instead.  

 Although dizzy and discombobulated, I lasted the hour.  

Earlier that week, I had attended two funerals, which had left me wondering pondering how I would die. I even composed a mental list of possibilities, from most likely to least. 

Cancer, heart attack, stroke, and car accident topped my list. Fire, drowning, gun shot, stabbing, suicide, and plane crash were at the bottom. 

After that second spin class, I was consumed with thoughts such as, "Hitting my head on a concrete block wasn't even on my list.  Who knows how else I could die? Wouldn’t it be ironic if I died trying to improve my health? Yes, but if I were dead, would I get to enjoy the irony? Was Shakespeare aware that he died on his birthday?” 

Before I could attend a third spin class, I came down with the worst case of flu in my life —  COVID-19? 

Was the universe weighing in against riding bikes to nowhere in dark, deafening rooms?

Weeks later, when I was no longer contagious but still weak, I tried again. I chose a bike that had a bottle holder and didn’t squeal. I ducked when entering and exiting the room. 

But my airways were so tight that I gasped and wheezed while struggling to breathe.  “Will this be how I die?” I wondered. 

Sometimes, we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. After having my other hip replaced last year, my surgeon told me I couldn’t swim for four weeks to avoid possible infection. Guess who was counting the days until she could get back in the pool and has swum three days a week ever since ...   

I was also eager to get back to my fitness center. Just days after my surgery, I did return, with a walker.  

I used to look at others who walked or pedaled ever so slowly on a treadmill or stationary bike or who hardly lifted any weight and wonder why they were bothering. I had become one of them. 

Now I admire everyone who tries, and I remind myself that I don’t know what their situation is.   

These days I've added stretching and running in the shallow end of the pool to my routine. I've abandoned yoga and spinning.   

I haven’t tried Zumba, barre, hot yoga, Pilates, water aerobics, or any of the other classes that a lot of people who aren’t me love. But I haven't ruled them out either. 

I enjoy working out for a multitude of reasons — looking better, being healthy, relieving stress, and being able to eat as much as I do and still fit into my clothes. When I get bored, the promise of staying independent as long as possible — for my sake and my loved ones, who may one day be my caretakers — gets me to the gym.  

Janet Alessi has been teaching at John I. Leonard High School since 1983 and is a frequent contributor to Accent. She can be reached at jlmalessi@aol.com.