That, friends, is a picture from nearly 13 years ago.  I was in the best shape of my life, having worked very hard on sobriety and my physical / mental health for an entire year, and wanted to photo document the outcome with the help of a friend in Victoria who was also an aspiring professional photographer.  He was always happy to add to his portfolio and creatively collaborate on aesthetics, so I didn’t have to pay a cent for his excellent work.   

I don’t care who you are, or what you say: if you’d put the time and effort into strict workouts, battling alcohol abuse, and a clean diet for many months, you’d also want some visual souvenirs of your toil.  This was an era before smartphones, Instagram, Kardashian beauty “norms,” and posting endlessly nauseating pictures of yourself on social media became entirely normal–and I’m not one who has ever really enjoyed having her picture taken–so it was quite significant of me to do some photo sessions with good old Aaron.  To paraphrase the character of Samantha on Sex and the City, who hired a photographer to take some nude pics, “When I’m old and my tits are in my shoes, I can look back at these and think, `I was hot.’”  Well, why not?  I was 35, 36 years old, an age when you can either take stock of yourself and keep up with self-preservation and care, or let it all slide into irreversible oblivion.  

As a woman, we’re judged ferociously for our looks, far more than men will ever be.  I’m sure some of the hopeless, shut-in misanthropes who can’t seem to leave me or my blog alone will slouch a bit further into their sofas, mansplaining to me in their infantile minds about how wrong and shallow I am, but I’ve accepted that these sorts of boys (yes, boys…they may be middle aged or beyond, but have never seemed to move past an adolescent state of emotional regulation, or I should say, lack of emotional regulation) have nothing of consequence to say despite their conceited insistence that they’re the smartest cats in the room. I’ve been hilariously scolded and insulted countless times over the years because I don’t say or do what these troubled little guys want me to say or do.  Oh well! Maybe Pierre Poilievre will help them!

Where was I before that digression?  Ah, yes.  Women are judged harshly for their appearance, and the older we get, the worse it becomes.  I’ve heard for decades that, with age, “Men become more distinguished and mature.  Women just become old.”  A long time ago, I read somewhere that a woman’s wrinkled, aging visage is considered unappealing and unattractive–despite her still being beautiful and showing the results of a life fully lived on her face–because it reflects the old, withered uterus that’s past its sell-by date.  Very nice.  And we can’t ever seem to just look how we look in a way that pleases anyone: we are way too fat, or we are way too thin.  We look weak and flabby if we don’t work out, or we look too “masculine” if we enjoy weight training.   If we age naturally, we are crucified for our wrinkles and sags, but if we get cosmetic surgery we look phony and are tragically vain.  We either look haggard and need to visit a cosmetics counter, or we look pathetic, a la Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”, if we do choose to wear a full face of makeup.  

Sadly, I actually do look like this if I wear a full face of makeup.

We can’t win.  And I’m not saying men are the ones to blame for this plague of female insecurity and social judgment, because women are right in there, and may even be worse than the opposite sex when it comes to condemning, side-eyeing, criticizing, and mocking the ladies.  How do I know?  Gosh, I guess because I’m a woman and have been around the female species for my entire life.  I’ve done it myself.  All of us women have. It’s ingrained in us.  Someone who has spent more time studying female psychology or whatever could explain it better, but it probably has something to do with the scarcity of decent, available mates and some desperate competition, or something like that.

Just one more pic from that photo session, I promise.  Look, I wanted to be a hot blonde, and I made it my project that year just to see if I could do it.  Dear reader: I did it.

I’m going to be 50 years old in one month and one year.  It’s bizarre to fathom, but it’s where I’m at.  I’m proud of the very interesting, adventurous, and often painful life I’ve led, and every single year has brought new obstacles and lessons, but there’s no getting around the truth that I am basically half a century old. 

I remember the year 2000 in picture-perfect detail, and a shockwave of dread ripples through my body when I realize that 2000 was 24 years ago, and that 24 years from today, I will be 72.  Actually, that makes me nauseous.  My father is 78, and he tells me that, in his mind and soul, he doesn’t feel a bit different from how he was as a young man in his twenties, and he can’t wrap his brain around the number attached to his chronological age.  I think many of us can relate.  He and my mother are every bit as lucid, sharp, and witty as anybody who is one-third of their age. 

Actually, most twenty-six year-olds aren’t that lucid or sharp thanks to being raised on the internet, and anything considered witty would result in, at best, a case for triggering their beloved PTSD, and at worst, a furious campaign for cancellation and/or imprisonment.  

Carrying on with indignation! I have not felt old or weak or in any state of cognitive decline, and if I remain a pescatarian, my mental faculties will likely remain very much intact if I have the misfortune of living for another 48 goddamn years.  I feel quite good.  I’m still attractive “for my age,” and I think in general.  When I leave the very gay neighbourhood I’ve resided in for a decade, men do check me out, which is always appreciated considering I am invisible here in Davie Village.  I have no problems meeting guys, even though they’re usually all sorts of wrong for me, or I am wrong for them, or both (which has typically been the case).  I’m not even perimenopausal, never mind menopausal, as a hormone test last year indicated. This means I could still technically, nightmarishly get pregnant.  Lord, could you imagine?  Accidentally pregnant at 50 years old? 

I’m doing well; my self-confidence hasn’t wavered too much, and thanks to good genes, the hard and ongoing, not-perfect work of sobriety, and tireless personal effort, I’ve mostly maintained my appearance and my exuberance.  Contrary to what my heavily-projecting ex insists (“You hate yourself!”), I don’t dislike myself one bit.  In fact, my self-respect has never been stronger.

…then I had to get a membership at a new gym two weeks ago, and my age absolutely kicked me in the face with all the subtlety of a steel-toed boot adorned with freshly-sharpened razor blades.

Now, this is not because I’m out of shape, but because there’s apparently an aesthetic among the ladies there, and I do not fit into that aesthetic even sort of.  I have never before felt quite like such a soggy old woman, apart from when I gained some COVID chonk (didn’t we all?).  Holy Toledo, this was an eye-opener.

Let’s get the context in order:  I wrote a blog post several weeks ago in which I referenced my gym, as well as the Vancouver road crews who are making many, many thousands of dollars for digging, refilling, and standing around.  Hey, it’s a good gig if you can get it.  Had I known there was a solid, stable, lucrative future watching guys in hard hats poke at a water main, I would have dropped out of SFU faster than you can say “essays about seventeenth-century novels.”  Well, the road crew is still inching its way down Pender, but my gym has closed down for who knows how long.  That’s what they said in a flippant note.  I went there a couple of weeks ago for a workout, only to find that the place was entirely dark, and there was a notice on the door saying We are closed until further notice.  You can still use our North Shore location, though!  Thanks!

No courtesy email, no dates, no explanation, no compensation, just a perfunctory paragraph indicating that we downtown members were S.O.L., and we could take a one-hour bus ride to Capilano Mall if we wanted to work out.  It was beyond enraging.  This gym–which is called Fit4Less, and if gyms were supermarkets, it would be the equivalent of No Frills having a problem child with Dollarama–sure wasn’t the fanciest place in town, but it served a purpose, and I had been a member there for seven years.  Thirteen bucks every two weeks for a 24-hour facility in downtown Vancouver isn’t shabby at all.  I’ve had gym memberships for over twenty years, which includes every country in which I’ve temporarily lived, and this joint was the cheapest around, no debate.  It was a casual fitness centre that had adequate equipment, and a clientele that was fully unpretentious and kept to themselves.  The facility itself is pretty much decently working-class and purpose-driven, and thanks to horrible professional decisions and a determination to overcome them, I am very much both of those things, so it suited me perfectly.

However, since Fit4Less doesn’t have any corporate headquarters, I had to call the North Vancouver location to get some answers.  All they could tell me was that Pender Street was closed because of flooding and electricity issues, and there was no word on its reopening.  Fantastic.  I demanded they cancel my membership right there and then, which they did with total understanding.  As you can well imagine, a scathing email went out to Pender Street management, which was met with an apologetic reply and the promise to suspend any further payments as well as a refund for any payment past the closure date of October 22nd.  That latter bit will never happen; I know gyms, and I know how they will do everything in their power to take money out of your account for as long as possible, never mind refunding payments.  There would be a higher likelihood of my bank cheerfully offering to gift me a few thousand dollars for my savings account.

Annoyed, I did some research and discovered that there was another gym downtown that offered competitive rates–only four dollars more per month than Fit4Less–and a tour of the facilities revealed it to be big, modern, with up-to-date equipment and even a separate workout area that was Women’s Only if we felt we needed that option.  A membership would also come with one free trainer consultation to test body composition and explore fitness goals, two days of free workout trials to test out the place, and since they had an October promotion, I wouldn’t have to pay the $99 sign-up fee.  Fabulous!  What a score!  Who wouldn’t take this option?  An idjut, that’s who!  I snagged a membership on the spot, then went home, pleased with this new beginning.  I deserved a change, and this place felt like moving on up after many years of roughing it: as though I was finally shopping at Safeway instead of No Frills.  

Remember when I said I don’t ask for much in this world?  

I enthusiastically got myself ready for a workout early the next day, since Annie gets me up at six o’clock on the dot every morning for her breakfast (she is so clever and accurate at telling time, she managed to understand our turning the clocks back a week ago and still gets me up at six a.m.).  Pulled on one of my many pairs of cheap, trusty workout pants, threw on a sports bra and my Map of Saskatoon T-shirt, laced up my trainers, filled up a bottle with filtered water, and marched down for the first day of what might be a new and energetic workout regimen.

I decided to try the female section of the gym simply because I hadn’t fully explored the bigger, more open co-ed area.  I’ve never belonged to a female-only gym apart from the one I signed up for in Berlin called Fitness First, and it was fabulous only because of its steam room, dry sauna, and whirlpool.  I’m not a big fan of estrogen volumes tilting alarmingly to one side, nor do I particularly like having too much testosterone clouding the room (although I sure am a fan of the stuff!), but there’s something to be said about quietly working out without listening to the grunts and growls of intimidating roidheads deadlifting weights just a mere few feet from where you’re playing around with ten-pound barbells.

As I walked into the women’s section–which was behind closed doors–I was pleased to see that there were only about two other ladies in there.  They looked very young and were in great shape; if I could crank back time to my early twenties, I would nosedive into physical fitness in a very real way.  I didn’t really get into serious working out until I was about 27 or 28, and by that point, I had tragically discovered that alcohol was a very effective anesthetic, one that would compromise so many elements of my life and impact my decision-making for years and years.  But that’s for yet another blog post, despite my having written about alcohol abuse and rehab on here numerous times.  My deadly entanglement with ethanol was the longest, most intense, and most dysfunctional relationship I’ve ever had, and it will stay with me for the rest of my life.  

On this inaugural new-gym day, I climbed onto the elliptical machine with my earbuds in place and was impressed with how up-to-date it was in comparison to the equipment at Fit4Less, complete with touch-screen options to watch a show, listen to music, or check social media (ha, ha).  As I finished my warmup, I steadily and happily increased my resistance and incline.  

More girls began coming into the area.  And this is when I realized something: I’m old.

There wasn’t another woman my age at the gym during this time, which was in sharp contrast to the diverse crowd at my old facility.  All of the girls were girls, and I do mean easily young enough to be my daughters, or even granddaughters if we want to get pedantic about technical possibilities.  What’s more, they all had the exact same outfits and had the exact same bodies: a sports bra with exposed midriff, and either LuluLemon or AYBL brand leggings.  AYBL, incidentally, is currently a wildly popular workout brand, because they are designed to serve the same function as a push-up bra: their spandex engineering utilizes “butt-lifting technology,” which means exactly that.  

All of these girls had perfectly round, firm asses that were suspended in mid-air, as though two small, firm cantaloupe melons were placed down the rear of their leggings.  Tiny waists.  Agonizingly flat stomachs, and I say this because no matter how thin I have ever been in my life, I have never been able to achieve this feat.  My weight, genetically, insists on going to my midsection, and it doesn’t matter how many diuretics or laxatives I ingest, doesn’t matter how many crunches or long-distance runs I go on, I will always have flab around my tummy.  I hate it, but that’s how I’m built.  One cannot spot-burn fat; it does what it will do thanks to DNA and a vengeful god.

These ladies also had beautifully-shaped legs and arms, and hair that stayed smoothly in topknots.  So, to recap: there I was in my comfortable workout gear, exercising her almost-49-year-old bag of meat and bones, surrounded by young women who all looked like Instagram models or “influencers.”  

Kind of like this!  Except maybe even younger!  I can’t tell anyone’s age anymore!

Thankfully, they kept to themselves.  There were no snotty looks, there was no smirking or judgment.  These luscious young things just saw red haired meemaw over there on the elliptical in her T-shirt and basic trainers, staving off the pounds we all gain while pretending not to notice, not thinking for a second that I was someone to compare themselves to.  They were all focused on ass and leg exercises, like lunges and squats and resistance bands and kettle bell contortions, not a single one of them doing cardio.

That’s all I’ve ever really done, and my butt has never, not once, looked anything like theirs.  

The fitness trainer with whom I’d eventually have my free consultation informed me that strength training was something I really needed to start incorporating into my workouts, as “women your age can actually get adverse effects from too much cardio.”  Words I never wanted to hear.  It stung, but as the title of this blog post says, I keep forgetting that I’m not in my twenties, not in my thirties, and not even in my forties for very much longer.  It’s an absolute shocker to have this truth laugh in your face without mercy, by means of surrounding you with ultra-fit young girls in expensive workout gear.  

After over an hour of working out, including finally tackling the strength-training machines, I realized that this was a massive wake-up call as well as the excellent motivation I needed.  Why, there wasn’t a shred of doubt that this was Meant To Be!  It was obvious that there was a perfectly-mandated, predestined reason why Fit4Less totally flaked out; I was supposed to belong to this gym and change it up!  No more haphazard sessions on the same cardio machines.  No more sprinting around the Seawall and thinking that was a good enough workout (when, in fact, running is very hard on your entire body).  No more mirror-checking my ass at home and saying “Good enough.”  No more, I say!  While I would never resemble these flawless young things–and if I can be honest, I do not want a curated, honeydew-shaped butt, it’s just not a look that would make any sense on my type of frame–I could sculpt my body in a different way.  So what did I do?  Went to the changeroom and took a sideways selfie, of course.  When in Rome…

I’m not going to share that presently, but I might do a before-and-after down the line.  Maybe. Big, big maybe.

So there we go.  Approaching fifty, still in reasonably good shape, my stamina and physical fitness are better than ever, yet I’m still ignorantly comparing myself to girls who were probably in diapers when I was backpacking across Europe by myself, if even that old.  Heck, when I was switching majors in university, they were probably still just horny glints in their father’s eyes.  I’ve been to the gym several times since my first day a couple of weeks ago, and nothing has changed: the female clientele is around 75% identical to the ladies I initially shared the workout space with.  I’ve seen a couple of svelte older women, a couple of overweight youngish women, but it’s largely the same sorts of girls in the same outfits, maddeningly reminding me of my abdominal inadequacies. This place is nothing like the freewheeling Fit4Less.  I’m actually relieved I didn’t grow up in the age of social media, selfies, and self-absorption through external / digital validation, because that has to be a level of pressure that literally keeps you thrashing around in your bed at night.

Getting old isn’t fun.  Being reminded of it is even worse.  Oh well; I have age, wisdom, and experience to console myself with.  I mean, I bet none of those girls could tell you the name of Vince Neil’s first wife.  See?  I’ve done plenty with my life.