Little Old Lady … in Waiting

Tag: fitness

  • In Conversation with Sherry Fitzgerald

    Sherry Fitzgerald is my extraordinary sister-in-law and the youngest little old lady in waiting I will be interviewing in this series celebrating women over 50, a project devised and designed to elucidate wisdom teachings from my peers as we enter our last and ideally most intentional years. I have learned a lot from this dynamic, pocket-sized, ‘powerhouse’ wellness expert over the years, and I saved our conversation especially for January, a time when so many of us are reflecting on lifestyle changes to optimize health and wellbeing.

    Sherry’s life story sits unequivocally in the action-adventure category.  She rises at 4 am each day, works out twice a day, running, swimming, and biking 3 times a week, and making time to strength train 4 to 5 times each week. I often see her in Yoga class as well, she calls it her ‘treat’. In her early 50’s, Sherry has a body that most women in their 20’s would covet, and her biological age is, I strongly suspect, at least a decade younger than what her driver’s license indicates. She has run dozens of marathons in her athletic career and began training for Ironman competitions in her 40s, completing four of these grueling tests of strength and endurance to date, notably in Lake Placid and Mount Tremblant. For non-sporty types, these are triathlons starting with a 3.9-kilometer swim, followed by a 180-kilometer bike race, and for the closer, a full marathon, a 42-kilometer run. Mountain climbing was Sherry’s first physical challenge, climbing Mount Katahdin at age 18 and working as a mountaineer for a time in her younger years, spending 3 months in the fiords of Newfoundland. She is proficient at rock and ice climbing, she has jumped out of planes and bungee jumped, and was married in a hot air balloon.

    I asked her where such fire comes from, the genesis of her tremendous discipline and a lifelong devotion to fitness.  She shared with me that losing her father two weeks after her 17th birthday was a traumatic and profoundly impactful experience. “To be honest with you, I think I didn’t want to be on the earth for a while…there was a period in high school where if I knew more about suicide, I might have taken my life.  Once I figured out that wasn’t what I wanted to do, I kind of went in the opposite direction and said ‘Ok, who are the healthiest people in the world…I’m going to mirror what they’re doing’, and I did a 360 turn from there.  That’s why my fitness roots are so strong.  Every triathlon, every Ironman I complete is a little memoriam to my dad…most marathons I don’t even stop for the medal…it’s never been about that.”

    How she maintains such discipline has always been a mystery to me.  I asked her the secret. “I know our minds are very powerful, and sometimes not in our favor,” she tells me, “They’re always trying to keep us from doing anything hard, and I know that about my mind, and so now it’s the behavior that has to override that, so I just put actions first, before the feelings.  I am good at moving.  I get the endorphins, and I’m lucky in that I feel good when I’m moving.  But I also want to make sure that I move in a way that’s good for me, that includes rest and recovery and sometimes trying something new.  I’m not so good at sitting and that’s an area I’d like to explore more now.”

    No interview with a fitness expert would be complete without asking about diet, especially as the new year begins.  With respect to food, Sherry prioritizes longevity and optimizing feeling good above all. “I know instantly when I eat something whether it’s going to support my health or betray me.” Sherry eats a colorful rainbow of food, securing as many phytonutrients as she can get, and maximizing healthy fats and proteins.  Her diet is research-based but also customized to satisfy her palette.  “You have to make it your own, so you don’t feel hungry, or like you’re missing out. The food I eat leaves me feeling my best and if I didn’t feel that way, then I would still have some work to do.  I eat a plant-based diet. I don’t eat meat, or processed foods…no dairy, no wheat, no alcohol…I stay with whole foods. But there is no set formula. I’m not religious about food. I do take supplements and enjoy a pea or hemp protein smoothie daily maybe with chia and collagen and creatinine.  I do believe in fasting as well for my body to detox and clean.  During the day is my grace period. I graze and stay light during peak movement hours.  At the end of the day, I eat an enriched salad with a warm veg as well and I try to include 9 to 12 different colours on my plate.”

    Sherry has volunteered and worked contract and salaried positions at the YMCA in Saint John since she was in high school, initially as a fitness instructor and later as a personal trainer. Today she works full time as the Fitness Supervisor at the Y, where she is a well-loved and tremendously popular icon of fitness, a wellness mentor, and a stellar ambassador, exemplifying the philosophy and principles that the YMCA has long championed, embodying core values like inclusiveness, and kindness. I have on many occasions considered writing to her CEO to let them know what a magnificent asset they have in her and would have done so had we not shared the same last name. She has saved my life more than once.  After suffering great personal loss and working to overcome injury, it was often her voice that kept me moving and held me together on the hard days, and her steps I followed to find my way back to myself.  

    A wellspring of positive energy and a beacon of light, I know she has helped a great many others transition through similar periods of challenge with her characteristic humour, relentless encouragement, and deep hearted kindness. There is a small legion of little old ladies in waiting queuing up at the Y most days for the full Sherry experience, where she is leaving a legacy, fortifying a cohort of bodies, minds, and spirits, ensuring we live full and active lives, one standing abdominal curl and suitcase squat at a time. She makes movement fun, she creates a culture of safety that meets us where we are on our fitness journey, she distracts us from the hard parts, and encourages us to experience and enjoy the challenging work of staying healthy. She asks us to imagine what feels impossible some days and empowers us to find our own stride and strength, leading us in classes that build our muscles, create community, and elevate us all.

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less.

    I grew up fast after losing my father at a young age, and it changed the entire direction of my life. Health, movement, and taking care of my body became a priority from the beginning. That path led me to a lifelong career in fitness and wellness, helping others live the life they don’t want to lose. I built a family of my own, two children and a husband who anchor me, inspire me and remind me why every minute matters. I’ve learned to chase joy, strength, and connection with intention. I believe in living fully, honestly, and with purpose.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    Understanding what truly deserves your energy and letting go of everything that doesn’t.  It’s a gift to grow older, as we know.  My energy and my first priority has always been my family, but especially now, after the kids moved out.  I make a point to keep up with what’s going on in their lives, checking in on a regular basis, and making connections when I can, when they let me, she laughs. I make dates with my mom, celebrating her is a priority to me as well.  But at the start of each day, I prioritize myself.  The stronger I am, the more strength I can lend to everything else.  So, it always starts with me.  I’m up early and in bed early by 8 or 9pm.  It would be a wild night for me if I didn’t get to bed until 10, there would be some mischief happening.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    Realizing that time moves faster than you think, and that you can’t get any of it back.  I set intentions every day and at the end of day I usually do a little recap. In my bed I’ll revisit what went well not only with respect to my goals but also regarding my personal values, so if I can be authentic and live up to the values I’ve set for myself, then I count that as a win, to have lived a good day.  I don’t wait for Friday every week to weigh in and see how I’m doing…I think we’re past that.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    Living with Intention and Purpose

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    That living authentically and staying true to my values matters most, especially when life is going well. It’s important not to take anything for granted, to appreciate your life every day.  Every day is a gift.  Choosing to look for the brighter side and trusting that every experience, even the difficult ones, is something I am meant to learn and grow from, here to shape who I am becoming.

    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    The ability to bounce back without overthinking. As a child when something happens you tend to get distracted by something else so quickly and it’s easier to just let things go; whereas as an adult, and I’m getting better at this now, but if someone looks at me a certain way or if I potentially hurt someone’s feelings, or someone hurts mine, it stays with you. We have more experiences at play and more meaning behind those experiences because of the life span, and things can become more emotional.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    What you give out always finds its way back. I do believe in karma. I think angry people hold that inside themselves and I wouldn’t wish that for anyone.  My mom is very religious and brought us up on the ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’  So even if no one else is around when you do something bad you still internalize it, and it will come back to teach you again.

    Do you have a favourite word?

    Kindness.  It’s my number one strength.  Not only in how I treat others but also in how I treat myself.  I wasn’t kind to myself for a lot of years and it’s a fine balance between giving and not taking too much away from yourself.  I’m just getting it now.  I wasn’t as kind to myself as I was to everybody else for many years.  I practice kindness in a more balanced way now and that feels good.  A coach once told me to imagine someone you love very much and consider how you would treat them or counsel them in similar circumstances. You would want to treat them kindly, and so now hold the mirror up and take that approach with yourself.

    Describe your perfect day.

    A morning workout to set the tone, followed by time with my family, unrushed, present, connected. A long walk in nature and meaningful conversation. I have that perfect day every week with my friends and with my family.  Now whether that’s my husband’s shining moment of the week I don’t know. (Laughing) No… marrying Derek was probably the smartest thing I ever did, and I think there was a higher power that brought my husband to me.  He is pure kindness.  Meaningful conversation for me includes our speaking about our shared memories and the future, dreaming together, and listening to stories from my mother’s childhood as well. I’m at age now where I have the capacity to care and listen better.  I ask more open-ended questions to learn more from the people I care about most.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead, or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?

    My father. I’d want to tell him who I became, and introduce him to the family he never met, and I would ask him everything I never got the chance to ask. I’m very proud of the life we’ve built together.  It doesn’t just happen, as you know, it’s a lot of hard work and a lot of sweat, a lot of time and effort and sacrifice, but also lot of joy and a lot of learning.  My husband is a gift, I’d just have to present him. The same with the kids, they are just so unique. I would just send them in.  I never really got a chance to know my dad as an adult, to learn what he liked to do, what some of his favourite things are.  I would like to learn more about him, to really know him.  I was just so angry that he left, it made for some very hard teenage years.  I would love the chance to get to know him, and to like him.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    Movement. Family. Helping someone discover their own strength. In my work at the Y, where I get the most joy is having those conversations with people and them speaking out loud their goals and dreams and the privilege of being that person that can help them get there.  I’ve been given so many tools throughout my education to support people and I feel so fortunate to be that person that can help them unlock their potential or rediscover their passion and joy. Those conversations…they’re a big part of my intention and my purpose, and my joy, catching people when they need a hand up.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    Reality T.V and Kind bars.

    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?

    I believe our spirit continues, maybe as energy, maybe as memory, maybe as a presence that never fully leaves. I like to think that the people we love are nearby in ways we can’t see but sometimes can feel. Years ago, when I was in Newfoundland, I had hypothermia and was evacuated by helicopter to hospital, and I feel like it was my father who saved my life.  I think there was like a tap on my shoulder that kept me from falling asleep and I’ve always attributed it to my dad.  A lot of people wouldn’t have survived, but I did.

    What would you like your eulogy to say?

    She will be remembered for her warm smile, contagious laugh, and unique, spirited personality. She loved her family and friends with her whole heart and always put others first, while learning to be kind to herself as well. She had a gift for seeing the brighter side of life, supporting people when they needed it most, and making those around her feel truly cared for.

  • Solvitur Ambulando…It Is Solved by Walking

    “Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” – Linda Hogan (Native American writer )

    “‘But it isn’t easy ‘ said Pooh. ‘Poetry and hums arent things which you get, they’re things that get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.’”- A.A. Milne

    If I’ve ever invited you on a walk then there is a fair chance you’re someone I love very much…family, and a handful of friends I keep close, like “a cloak, to mind (my) life.”(O’Donahue) I don’t walk, as our ancestors once did, to arrive at a particular destination, nor can I honestly say that I walk to safeguard my health, although, as a nurse, I know it to be powerful medicine, and an essential practice in the Little old lady in waiting’s handbook on how best to live a long and healthy life.  For me, walking is a sacred sojourn, like writing in a journal, or sitting down for a cup of tea on a busy day to savour a last bit of cake; it is a solitary ritual, a reflective exercise, a rich, sensual, fortifying experience, that grounds me in the present moment, and reveals a deeper way of looking, illuminating a world just beyond what our sedentary eyes can capture. Walking is a portal to the natural world where time may stand still, where we may even disappear for a while, as our unconscious unfurls, and insights and creative leaps lay waiting on well-trod paths like so many flowers to be gathered, an endless bouquet of ideas and dreams waiting to be revealed and rehomed.

    I have always believed a regular walking regime to be a salve for most of life’s ailments.  All those feel-good neurotransmitters dormant and eager for activation. I won’t bore you with the overly marketed health benefits…well, maybe just a quick review. Just as the doctors have always preached, walking, even a little, can significantly increase your lifespan, and reduce your biological age (marginally more appealing to the chronologically disadvantaged).  Walking also lowers your risk of cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and depression.  If that’s not enough to persuade you, there is also statistically significant evidence that walking lowers your stress level and reduces rumination and negative thinking.  Wait… I mean I’m down with the stress management, but I’m kind of trauma bonded with the rumination and negative thinking, that’s half my material.  Whatever…you get the idea…the health zealots are spot on, walking is good for you, body, and mind…but when has that ever been sufficient incentive to lace up, or drop the fork, if you see what I mean…again with the negative thinking and rumination. Let’s try again. Little old lady in waiting to little old lady in waiting, post-menopausal women who walk 4 hours a week have a 41% lower risk of hip fracture.  I like that. That’s positive…right?  I’m not sure where they get these exact numbers but I found it on my socials so it must be true. 

    Health considerations aside, here is what I know about walking from my own clinical trials, population of one.  No matter the setting for my walk: be it the sleepy, maturely tree’d, largely childless suburb that I call home, or any of the woodland parks scattered liberally in our beautiful picture province, or possibly the sea paths that wind along the miles of coastland in our stunning port city, nestled on the Bay of Fundy, or even a streetscape in the heritage block of Canada’s oldest incorporated city; a walk out of doors is a way through the wardrobe to a bountiful sensual world, where a steady stream of eye candy and auditory enchantments remind us to embrace the wild animal within, an invitation to howl for all the little old ladies in waiting, sat at home disguised  in grandma’s clothes, both figuratively, and literally some days.  We are meant to move our bodies, we our built to explore on foot, our ancestors walking ten times the distances we typically cover today. 

    Outside, in the natural world I am routinely transported by the startling beauty of the Disneyesque birds that sing in choirs on my quiet street, their sweet sad tunes in perfect pitch; or the spiral dance of autumnal leaves twirling upward as though commanded by the invisible hand of some ancient sorceress, reciting a spell to safeguard the woodland wildlife from winter on its way.  I hope she remembers to include me and mine in her magic. The animals nearby have a narrative all their own as they go about their daily errands and I nod to them when we meet: the black-sheep squirrel who lives in the tree at the front of my house, alone and happy to be so, or the family of deer who eat from my neighbours unpicked apple tree, heavy with fruit. I met, by chance, a beautiful fox not long ago, but neither of us had time to stop.

    Near the sea, I always envision I am walking with my dead relatives and even imagine I can hear their whispers in the wind and on the waves.  Walking in the woods, the air is perfumed with spruce and pine and something more elusive that smells like childhood and brings me back to a more innocent age, when the scariest monster I could imagine lived under my bed, not some beast who throws Gatsby themed balls, an evil, self-proclaimed king whose every soundbite is some variation of “let them eat cake.”  In the woods, while I’m walking at least, the king is dead…long live all the wild beings who walk this beautiful planet in peace.

    Saunter, stroll, scuttle, scale or stride,  I walk faithfully, alone, into the halcyon summer breeze of fresh cut grass and full strength sunny days, or the warm spring rain that bursts gardens into bloom, or my favourite, the crisp autumnal harvest days scented with chimney smoke and alight with golden interior tapestries of life, the window frames of  our neighbours homes in the gloaming, or out into the first snowfall of winter, a crampon crawl up and down frozen streets,  footfalls in virgin snow where I spy the tracks of smaller species, freshly awoken from a winter’s sleep.  Garlanded in cap and scarf, mittened, earmuffed, and balaclava’d, I’m adrift, a snowman flying through the air…la la la la la laaaaa.

    Outside, enveloped by ancient all-knowing trees, or surrounded by heritage architecture older than three little old ladies in waiting counted together, or stood at the thin space adjacent to the sea, there is a clarity of mind to be discovered that cannot be found in a book, or sat safely by the fireside, nor even under the tutelage of a wise seer.  There is a reverie known to the solitary walker (Rousseau), an enlightenment, an illumination, a flow of insights around every corner we turn. One foot in front of the other, there is space to think and puzzle and solve all the vexations visited upon us. Walking costs us nothing but time, no special gear required, only the capacity to listen to the resounding truth of our own intuition, a voice inside that speaks louder in silence, in the quiet found out of doors.

    A walkers’ trail is alive with imagery that invokes tangential lines of poetry and philosophical enquiry.  There is a hum when we walk…a higher frequency, a quiver of ideas and creative sparks. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” (Oliver) “I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.” (Elliot) And if while walking we by chance fall awake for a moment, to know this life is only a dream, how do we stay awake long enough to remember we are dreaming? (Wittgenstein). Walking is a whirlwind dance of ideas, a flow, an unconscious current in a deep primordial sea. And the story we rehearse inside ourselves, making up the parts we can’t quite recall, is a conversation I am happy to host most every day.

    I like to walk at a slower pace now, not quite the crawl my geriatric dog prefers, stopping to sniff every few feet, but I’m more interested in exercise for my mind and the quieting or distilling of my thoughts, than I am in exercising my body or protecting my cardiovascular health or even promoting longevity…still, perhaps aging backwards is something to aspire to.

    For me walking is a meditation, “with every step, I arrive.” (Thich Nhat Hahn) I practice slowing down, I come awake and allow time to stretch out before me, like clotheslines where birds gossip with their friends and freshly laundered linens flap their wings.  I see winter bared branches with captured notes and receipts, escaped from recycled bins, adrift in the wind like so many clues. I listen to the sound of my own footsteps and then deeper still to my breath, and my own heartbeat, and the hum that hangs over everything, the sound of the universe, I suspect, like an hourglass set close to a microphone recording the ever-escaping sands of time.

    I have found many treasures on my walks: old coins and worry stones, sea glass and driftwood art, lost letters and grocery lists, emblems of lives lived next to our own, and reminders that we are, none of us, alone.   I have heard the voices of lost loved ones and remembered the thoughts and images of versions of myself long since lost with them.  Walking I have found the answers to problems, big and small, I’ve found perspective, and gratitude, an abiding peace, and a strong feeling of connection with something greater than myself, something capable of conjuring the unspeakable beauty that is all around us, best viewed by foot, moving at your own pace, walking alone, in the natural world.

  • “What’s for Dinner?”

    Edinburgh Tea Biscuits

    As a little old lady in waiting I try not to think about what’s for dinner anymore. For years it was the first thing I thought of each day, even before my feet hit the ground. I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking about food, too much of it. What’s best to eat, when to eat, what not to eat, what to pack for lunches, the daily miracle of coordinating, mandating and delivering family dinner at the table, the sometimes dubious nutritional value of said dinner, and the fallout of loosing the family dinner battle. What should I eat to maintan a healthy BMI? What does a healthy diet means beyond the parameters of the food pyramid? Which diet is best: vegan, vegetarian, low fat, low carb, high protein, one meal.. three meals…four, ‘one potato, two potato, three potato, four.’

    As a woman who stayed home for a dozen years and felt the full weight of the domestic hausfrau experience, food purchase, prep and delivery was a significant part of my work day. Suffice to say, I’ve steamed my way through several rice makers and peeled enough potatoes to feed the whole of Ireland. I’ve menu planned and scrutinized thousands of grocery lists and contemplated how best to infuse two growing humans, with as many fruits and vegetables as possible, a herculean task in an age of ‘lunchables’ and packaged candy in the shapes and flavours of actual fruit…highly processed, heavily marketed frankenfood. I take pride in the fact that my daughter refers to us as an “ingredient family’, where very little comes from a box or is overly processed (notable exceptions – yogurt, cheese and bread…we’re in the 21st Century friends… I draw the line at kneading, churning, aging or vigilent attention to temperature). There is very little that is instantly consumable in my cupboards…all food stuffs require some sort of preparation: rinsing, dicing, slicing, roasting, toasting..or a quick commingling in the Ninja.

    For my 50th Birthday I decided to hang up my apron for good. Back to work outside the home for a number of years, I was ready to resign from my second job as menu architect, head chef, prep chef, pastry chef, bus boy, dish diva, and lunch maker. Happy Birthday to me. I explained to my family that I would cook only if the spirit moved me and that dinner was no longer to be expected by any of my spoiled, unskilled, hangry housemates, especially on days when they arrived home before me. Looking back it was the death toll for the family dinner, that and competing schdules. The kids were both in high school at the time. Ten years later, on the road to 60, I can report only mixed success in divesting my culinary role…I blame myself, and my misguided attempts to safeguard my family’s heath, protect my kitchen, and reduce ceiling splatter and any permanent damage to appliances.

    “Whats for dinner?” is a kitchen query that still eminates from my hungry adult children in the late afternoon from time to time. Shoulder deep into the fridge or pantry, desperate to make the ingredients on display coalesce into something approaching a satisfactory meal, but too inexperienced or myopic to see the beauty of ‘breakfast for supper’, or the fact that chickpeas are really hummus in disguise. I think it’s important to acknowledge here that my husband is too clever to ever broach the subject of dinner. When the kids do slip up and ask whats for dinner, I smile a happy little boundary smile, and if I’m not hangry myself, I might suggest cereal, or eggs or pb and j’s. At other times I simply repeat, “dinner” with a slightly stupefied, quizical brow, as though they were speaking in some foreign language… a look I learned from my husband, a master at navigating family life with minimal effort on his part.

    The subject of supper aside, as a little old lady in waiting…who am I kidding here…at all stages of ladydom, I have given a great deal of thought to my diet, in an attempt to consume nutrient dense, high volume, low caloric-load foods, to look good in my jeans, to avoid suburban square arse syndrome, a hideous plague of middle age, and later, as a nurse, to avoid carcinogenic foods like processed meats and cardiac villains like trans fats, and more recently, to restrict inflammatory culprits in order to reduce pain…that’s right…I’m going after the sugar and simple carbs, to reduce the meno-pot, the 10 or so pounds of fluff floating around my mid section. No, its not there to protect our organs as we age. Closing in on 60 it’s time to quit the cake … not the wine though (maybe ditch the fruity sugary stuff), but wine’s a living whole food ..its not processed… its allowed to age. LOL to LOL no one is taking the wine off the table.

    Dessert, however, and the bread basket I believe are a fair trade for decreased joint pain, ease of zipper glide, improved meno head and energy levels, and potentially increased longevity with greater functionality and mobilty in the last quarter of our lives. After a lifetime of exhaustive and ongoing research on the topic of food and diet I can recommend only three books on the subject that form the genesis of my LOL approach to food. The first, Michael Pollan’s In Defence of Food – an Eater’s Manifesto” can be distilled in a simple maxim: “Eat food (real food), not too much, mostly vegetables.” Next, Savour: Mindful Eating – Mindful Life by Thich Knat Hahn which encourages a mindful reverence when eating and a grateful appreciation of all the work and people involved in bringing food to your table. Lastly, French Women Dont get Fat by Mireille Giuliano, which promotes a self awareness of individual food challenges and suggests a highly customized self-taught approach that respects your personal food picadillos and preferences. No foods are off the table for les femmes francais.

    I’ll be honest and say that if I get to choose my last meal, one final opportunity to taste, smell and enjoy food, my pedestrian pallette will no doubt yearn for a tea biscuit made by some proper little old lady…perhaps of Scottish descent. I’d lather each half with a generous mound of clotted cream (the kind from a jar imported from England) and lemon curd (also imported from the British isles…not the lemons mind). I love simple carbs and homemade sweets. I grew up on them. Cheap, easily portable and quickly put together, some of my fondest childhood memories by the Bay of Fundy in the wilds of the Maritimes, star these cheerful oven baked ‘rib stickers.’ My mother taught me that there isn’t much a good tea biscuit or pan of fudge can’t cure…except maybe diabetes. I know sweets are not recommended on anyone’s food pyrimad, even the ones heavily influenced by “Fat/Sugar/Salt” pressure groups …yeah …they’re out there, doing a sweet business with their sugar-coated promise of a 10 second dopamine high that will keep you coming back for more. Hanging onto my fifties by my fingernails, I have grudgingly come to accept that my dear old friend, bread, the plain sister of the sweet family, is nothing but a nutritionally void filler… bread is bad, and I’m finally ready to embrace a life without sugar laden simple carbs.

    For this little old lady in waiting, dinner for the foreseeable future is some variation of fruit and veggies, legumes and lean protein, like fish, quinoa, nut butters and beans. I’m allowing for reevaluation at age 80 depending on the efficacy of a clean diet as regards pain management and cognitive capacity. There may come a day when tea and toast and biscuits lathered in cream become a mainstay again but for now this LOLIW is off the edible dopamine drip and opting for foods that promote less fluff, more energy, a clear head and ideally a pain free active lifestyle for many years to come. That’s what’s on the menu.

  • On Pickleball – An Addiction, a Meditation, a Playground for Graybeards and Dowagers

    Photo Credit – Joanie Lawrence

    “And though we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are. One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but stong in will, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

    Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Hello. I am a little old lady in waiting, and I am … addicted to Pickleball. It started innocently enough…it was between the early morning Aquacise and the Active Aging strength training class that I first spied them, the Pickleballers (contemporaries, mostly retired, not exactly sportswear models…maybe for the vintage lines), slamming the hell out of a whiffle ball with what looked like oversized ping pong paddles. I stood there transfixed, my nose to the gym windows, mesmerized by the speed of the play and the unique center court positioning, which I later came to refer to as a ‘kitchen party.’ I could hear what sounded like actual whooping and wailing, ‘ooo’s’ and ‘ahhh’s,’ yelps of triumph and elation, and grunts of exertion and defeat.  It was a far cry from the mantras and abiding calm of the yoga studio, or the punishing routines practiced by the contortionists who lift and press and strain in the weight room, teeth clenched. So, when an old friend, I’ll call him ‘Dark Larry’ to protect his identity, invited me to play one day, I ‘screwed my courage to the sticking point’ and grabbed a racquet. I mean how hard could it be…right?

    Half an hour later…ok…20 minutes, I was drenched in sweat and red faced from sprinting and, well… shame and mortification.  I made my excuses and hobbled out. Full disclosure I’m not exactly ‘sporty spice’ unless you count reading outdoors or strolling with my geriatric dog. I couldn’t even return the ball unless it landed on my paddle by some stroke of luck, my eye-hand coordination was… shall we say, non-existent.  It felt like I had a learning disability. My synapses were firing fine but, not fast enough for my body to translate into something approaching athleticism. I sucked. We got pickled…twice, which means we failed to score a single point against our opponents. They say they didn’t know it was my first time, but I’m not sure I believe them.  I’ll never forgive those mean girl grannies.

    Two years later, including an 8-month hiatus for a back injury and surgical repair, I’m still playing pickleball.  My doctor said if I continued to play it was ‘at my peril’, given the number of injuries associated with the game, but when my surgeon, a sports enthusiast, gave me the all clear, I was back at it before the stitches melted away. Today, on a good day, I self-identify as an intermediate level player. I won’t bore you with the metrics, suffice to say, I feel like a badass when playing novices, and cannon fodder when flanked by advanced players, predators of placement, magicians who wave their hand back and forth at the kitchen line, a subtle roll of their paddle and its done; an unreturnable serve to your backhand, a ball that makes no bounce, a paced shot to your dominant shoulder that requires the reflexes of a teenager to return.

    Advanced players drill more than they play, they do battle with ball propellers until they perfect each shot, while intermediates, “the middle children” of the pickleball world,  mostly play each other, shrieking in satisfaction or allowing ourselves small knowing smiles of quiet delight when we land a 5.0 serve, or execute a perfect kill shot that ends a long dynamic rally.  A new favourite partner with the gift of the gab, let’s call him, ‘the Winemaker’‘, always says, “that one’s going on the fridge,‘ in those prized moments of unexpected glory.

    While those adrenaline fueled 10 second highs are satisfying in the extreme, I’m not convinced that’s sufficient reward to tempt a recluse like me to expend the energy required for  my daily pickleball fix. We’re out there for hours most days.  I like people fine, but I find them lovelier from a distance.  My social battery is three times too small, a birth defect I believe.  I have a decided preference for the “usual suspects” of long acquaintance, and well-trod social settings.  I do like the structure of organized play, however, and the fact that very little conversation is required during play. 

    Pickleball has its own vernacular: we speak of drives, and drops, the dink, the lob and my new favourite reset strategy, the drive-drop.  There is the infamous kitchen, or non-volley zone, the seat of power in pickleball, much like the center quad in a game of chess.  She who reaches the kitchen first controls the play, it is where all kill shots (overhead slams or smashes that end a rally) are born. There is the postage stamp at each corner of the court where all good serves hope to land.  Then there are the basic strategies like serve and stay, the deep return, the third shot drop, or the party pieces like ATP, the Ernie, the Houdini, and of course things to avoid, the double hit, the double bounce the foot faults, the net balls and the lets (rallies that must be replayed for any reason).  We won’t even start in on the unique scoring articulation that includes the score and server position, to be announced before each serve. It takes a moment to master, and in the end, no one can remember who is serving anyway, let alone the score. As a friend said only last week, “Sometimes I’m holding the ball and I still don’t know who is serving.”  I usually defer to the youngest player on court, rather than waste precious play time arguing with peers in the early stages of cognitive decline…no one wins those debates.

    Once you’ve learned the basics, and the lingo, then the task is to learn the players.  The lefties who encroach on the center court shots from the right, the lobbers who take advantage of the mobility compromised, the ball hogs, the blind men whose line calls are questionable at best, the players who like to call their opponents’ line calls, your basic complainers, and whiners, the cheaters and liars, those prone to unsolicited advice, those who intentionally misrepresent the score to their advantage  a second before serving, the unkind casual remarkers, passive aggressive mind fuckers….and those are just my friends. Just kidding…I adore my squad…truly. There are vexations of course, any pickleball club is a microcosm of society at large, complete with social miscreants, but for the most part the community, at the intermediate rec level at least, is honourable, inviting, observant of established etiquette, and focused on good solid play.  You win some, you lose some, and most everyone lands a shining moment, even if it never ‘makes the fridge.‘

    While I’ve met some amazing people playing pickleball, artists, musicians, landscape designers, neuro-surgeons, businessmen, accountants, IT types (all mostly retired); and acknowledge that for many the soft, social side of pickleball, ‘a place where everyone knows your name‘ is a big draw, I can honestly say that for an introvert like me (masquerading as an ambivert because it sounds cooler), the sweaty social petri dish of court society is most definitely not the source or even a triggering  factor of my pickleball addiction.

    So, what is the allure?  If it’s not the thrill of blood sport, or the social networking, what exactly is driving my pickleball predilection? Why do I routinely leave the house, against my better judgement most days, to play a sport that I am only arguably competent in, flailing about with quick furtive movements that can’t be considered optimal exercise for my crumbling spine, and osteoarthritic joints, and that often overwhelms my inner agoraphobic (I mean…I could be home, reading)? 

    Something is driving my need to hit that perforated, neon yellow, plastic chew toy of a ball, and I think it has more to do with my relationship to the ball itself than to any of the dear friends I count myself lucky to have met on the courts. When the ball is in play I am hyper focused, almost as though I was encapsulated in a speed game of Atari pong.  My brain likes the readiness position, awaiting the ball’s rapid-fire approach and the subsequent response signal it sends to my unruly body to return the volley. It likes to look for openings for ball placement and opportunities to dink or lob or drive as it draws me to the kitchen as if by a magnetic force. While my brain is engaged and my body, the recalcitrant slave to its unreasonable demands, I experience a heightened sense of relaxation. At play I am immersed in a thought-less slumber, I’m cocooned in an unconscious whiskeyesque oblivion.  I go animal.  Playing pickleball is a reprieve from the constant flow of thoughts that plague the modern mind.  It is a meditation, a place to rest from the narrative that has no end in the curious mind of this little old lady in waiting.  This emptying of cerebral space to all but the most basic objective, to hit the fast-moving ball, coupled with the therapeutic endorphin ride that accompanies the exacting physical exertion, and the dopamine high of a well played point, I believe that is the root of my pickleball addiction.

    You understand that win or lose, novice, intermediate or advanced, I’m still an introvert sloshing through a sweaty- peopled mosh pit to play pickleball.  Why do I do it? I do it for the dopamine.  Don’t get me wrong, I love  to win, but win or lose, the best games for me are those that are over in a flash, equally matched or playing slightly above your natural abilities, surrounded by the ‘usual suspects’, the squad that invite you out to play each day, the partner that taps your paddle after a missed shot in a show of support, the victories, the defeats, relentless humanity in all its splendour.   In the early morning hours, I tentatively open my car door in the crowded car park of the pickleball courts and am assailed by a chorus of laughter and comradery coming from a cohort who have worked hard all their lives, old enough to have earned their place in the playground, and still young enough to understand the importance of play.  It is a beautiful sound, uncommon and contagious, and sweet enough to cast a reciprocating smile on the face of even the most determined introvert. 

    Author’s Note:

    This blog post is dedicated to my very first pickleball friend who I’ll call ‘Spreadsheet girl’. We started this crazy game together, and she is currently out with an injury.    I hope I’ll see her soon.