The Look of Denial

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I have been disheartened in a deeply personal way by the response of the candidate for President to the accusations of sexual abuse. Perhaps it is because I have heard the same kinds of statements throughout my life. “It never happened.” “Who would abuse her?” “Why is everyone blaming me?” “I would never ever have done such a thing.” “She must be crazy to be saying these things.”

Denial is a mystery to me. I think that in general it is just a way to try to divert the attention back to the victim. And denial has a chilling effect on the listener. Even the victim is vulnerable to questioning her own experience. The experience of trauma is real, but sometimes the details are remembered, sometimes not. Sometimes we remember the car was black when really it was blue. When someone puts the focus on the color of the car, we may back off from our very real experience of sexual assault in a car, no matter the color.

May we continue to, as the early women in the movement in the 60’s would say, “Listen each other into speech.” May we support each other, women and men both, in acknowledging the truth of sexual violence commonly perpetrated by men in power against women and men with less power. Let’s let truth, not denial, have the last word.

A Break From Insanity

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Cape Breton Nova Scotia

The news here has been teeming with discussions of sexual assault. For the many women my age, there is nothing unusual about the accounts of women’s experience. We were regularly taken as sex objects long before we knew that there was another way to be female. There is something terribly rewarding about the outrage that is widespread in the country about such “locker room talk” and behavior. It is as if finally someone is angry about how we were treated, even if it was many many years ago.

Still, the whole election climate has been upsetting, and I have needed to remember the true loveliness of the world. Here is one such image. May we all evict the abusers from our brains and fill our thoughts with the deep beauty available all around us.

Apology?

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We all recognize a genuine apology when we receive one. We can see the remorse in the offender, hear the grief in the voice, feel the wrong has been acknowledged and repented of. Apologies genuinely given can be genuinely received and the rift in the relationship can be mended.

It is hard to genuinely apologize to someone we have wronged. We first of all have to recognize that we have hurt someone else. Then we have to overcome the shame and the blame that comes with the realization that we have blown it. We can try to change the subject by reminding the other person that they, too, have hurt us in the past. Maybe that will take some of the heat off of us.

Or we can say a perfunctory sorry, the words coming off our lips but our body language revealing that we aren’t really apologizing. We see that in the forced speeches of prisoners of war who are told to apologize for being American. We can tell that they are merely repeating a text given to them by their captors.

Yesterday as one candidate went through his “apology” I wasn’t fooled. No woman my age could have been. We had seen that game before. And we weren’t falling for it again.

Musical Interlude

Last night I went to a concert of Joan Baez, now 75, performing a 90 minute concert with two musicians and one co-singer. Her son Gabriel, one of the musicians, played an astounding accompaniment on drums.

I first saw Baez in 1963(the photo on the left) in concert in Portland, Oregon with Bob Dylan. An electrical charge ran through us all, as it did between Dylan and Baez. Then her protest songs ran through my college years with her marriage to a draft objector, David Harris, highlighting my classmates resistance to the Viet Nam war. She had her son Gabriel about the same time I had my daughter, and her song “Honest Lullaby” encouraged me as a mother–“you got a mother who sings to you an honest lullaby.” Her cynical “Diamonds and Rust” with digs about Dylan resonated with my own attitude about romance at the time my marriage was dissolving.

In all, she has sung me through the majority of my life in a way that seemed quite personal. Last night, surrounded by a sea of fellow aging boomers, I realized that each of us, thinking we were alone with her voice, were actually part of an ocean of listeners. Our solitary experiences were united as we sang along, “Gracias a la Vida,” thankful for her life and our own.

What Upper Body Strength?

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I am encouraged that even at three weeks old I found push-ups difficult. I even stuck out my tongue as I tried. Regaining upper body strength as an adult has been a slow process. I am prone to tendinitis in my elbows and shoulders, and I have to carefully pace myself so that my muscles get strong enough to do the pushing and pulling. I have too often strained those tendons by not relying on the muscles. Whenever I tried to get stronger on my own at home, I would injure one or another tendon. Having a trainer has been wonderful since she adjusts my stance and modifies activities when I feel any twinge start up. This has allowed me to get a good deal stronger for the first time in years.

Patience has been the most important tool in my working to regain functional fitness. A sense of humor is also essential. Fortunately the camaraderie at the gym lets me take the process with laughter as we decide what real life skill is being developed with each new activity. Working on one legged squats we surmise would be handy if one had a broken foot. Carrying a kettle bell overhead would be good practice for portraying the Statue of Liberty at Halloween.

You Want Me To Whomp Ropes?

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Jenn quickly understood my style–slow but steady. She listened carefully to my goal to regain functional fitness. Jenn was my daughter’s age and so were most of the women exercising at the time we worked together. A majority of the people around me were interested in losing weight. Several wanted to fit wedding dresses. Thankfully I was not worried about fitting in a dress as much as getting up off the floor when I was retrieving something from the back of the refrigerator.

Paul had introduced me to ropes, and I told Jenn I loved them. Basically there are two very long thick ropes attached to the wall. You lift them and them whomp them down on the floor. This is amazingly therapeutic, especially if you name each rope after a nemesis in your life, present or past. It also apparently builds muscles. That may in fact be its primary purpose, but I was so busy having fun whomping them that I never thought about my goals.

Jenn also had me lift a heavy ball and throw it down on the floor, pick it up and throw it down again. Over and over. I was having a lot of safely aggressive fun all in the name of functional fitness. Jenn and I were going to get along very well.

So Long It’s Been Good to Know You

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Well, Paul and I were getting along famously. I had even gone to Target to buy a pair of exercise pants. Not lycra of course, but very comfortable cotton knit. They went very well with my pink Niagara Falls t-shirt. I was styling. I was using 2 pound weights and beginning to find where muscles were supposed to be. They were pretty dormant, to say the least. Not entirely excited to have demands placed on them for the first time in years, they made little groans and squeaks. Still, 2 pound weights were an improvement over the first few times when I just went through the motions without any weights.

Then Paul told me that he and his girl friend( I kept asking him when he was going to make an “honest woman” of her, keeping in the in loco parentis mode) were moving west. Of course they were. As far as I can tell, every millennial in New England is moving west. Usually to Portland or Seattle. At least they were bucking the trend and going to Colorado.(#3 on desirable relocation site list for New England millennials.) Baby Boomers, by the way, seem to be going to North Carolina, South Carolina and Florida. Don’t ask.

As I waved goodbye I contemplated my fitness future. I couldn’t quit now. Well, I could, but I had to keep making payments until next year. So I reluctantly met my next trainer, Jenn, explaining all over again that I was functionally unfit and willing to try to get stronger. She smiled encouragingly and we began.

 

Please Tell Me This Is A Good Idea

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Everything in the gym was alien to me. There were weights, kettle balls(weights with handles), squishy balls, hard balls, straps, ropes, bars, pulleys and a variety of adjustable swing arm pulleys. There were also machines that looked fairly understandable because they had instructive pictures printed on them. Paul said to ignore the machines. He said they didn’t allow a free range of motion and didn’t promote “functional” fitness. The equipment we were going to use had no instructions printed on them. Paul was going to teach me how to use them.

We would have two different routines–A and B. Each would take about 50 minutes. Each would begin with foam rolling. Say what?calfbottoms

The bad news is that the web site for foam rollers says, “what is foam rolling and why does it hurt?” This was not an auspicious start for my poor tight muscles. But it was a beginning nonetheless.

Proprioception and Me

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After his initial evaluation of me, Paul mentioned he had taken a course in college on exercise for seniors. He explained that one of the key issues was struggles with proprioception. I struggled just to repeat the word, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Apparently it involves having an awareness of your body in space. Needless to say, if you have lived outside your body in your head, your proprioception is pretty skewed.

Not to fear, Paul told me, now we knew what to work on. First “functional fitness,” (getting off the couch, carrying the groceries, bending over to pick things up off the floor) and “proprioception” so I could know where I was. This would help with balance, an emerging challenge.

We agreed to meet twice a week and see how it went. He turned out to be nothing at all like a drill sargeant. I trusted Paul because he brought to mind the imaginary very helpful son I had never had as the mother of daughters. He was happy to have a woman his mother’s age actually be receptive to his ideas about fitness. We were off to a good start.

Nightmares of High School P.E.

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When I was entered high school in 1960, there was great pressure to have us be “fit.” President Kennedy stressed regular exercise and the Royal Canadian Air Force Exercises were widely recommended. There were prescribed exercises, one routine for all women and one for all men.

High school gym class was required, and we met every day, dressed down into gym clothes and did group exercises in classes of 30 or so. At the end of every class, we stripped naked and ran through a series of showers back to our lockers to get dressed and on to our next class. If you were having “that time of the month,” you could wear shorts into the shower room. The gym teacher diligently checked off which girls were wearing shorts. I assume she was checking for pregnancy, though she never said. Because I was a late bloomer and not regular, I avoided the teacher’s  attention by copying the cycle of the girl in the locker adjacent to me, wearing shorts each time she needed them.

If you are thinking the whole time was a nightmare, you would be right. This was the memory I took to the gym and first met Paul who needed to understand my present level of fitness before he could begin to work with me. I was questioning my sanity as we began the assessment.