Chair Yoga, or The Modern Day Rack

by Jody Worsham
All right reserved for a massaging, vibrating, heated recliner

Our Senior Center offers free excersize classes.  Free classes and the indisputable fact that I am, indeed a senior citizen, led me to my first ever Chair Yoga Class.

Now before you start visualization folding chairs in the Crouching Dog position or wing backed chairs in the Cobra position, I shall explain.

At the Senior Center there are various levels of yoga.  There is Chair Yoga, Floor Yoga, and Flat-on-Your-Back-Can't-Get-Up Yoga.  I had experienced the Flat-on-Your-Back-Can't-Get-Up Yoga sometime in the past decade so I decided to begin with Chair Yoga.  At least I would be closer to the floor if I fell out of my Tree Pose.

The first time I went to class, I asked the receptionist at the door for the yoga class.  Perhaps it was my accent, or my weight, because she said "The yogurt machine is right down the hall."  When I explained I wanted the Chair Yoga class, she said "Good!" and pointed to the right.

I was hoping I would not be the oldest living person there.  I was not.

The instructor had us spread out a yoga mat on the floor and place our chair on one end of the mat, then sit.  Ok, this I can do.  I was sitting in my chair, swinging my feet back and forth waiting for her to begin the relaxation music when I realized everyone else's feet were touching the floor.  While I was taller than the other ladies from the knees up, I was definitely on the short side from the knees down.

The music started. The instructor was facing us.  She told us to reach our left hand straight above our head, then slowly bend to the right as far as we could and hold it while breathing. I reached my right hand above my head, (I was copying her, mirror image and all) then I bent to the left as far as I could (about 12 inches) which put me face to face with the octogenarian who continued leaning until she had the palm of her hand flat on the floor.  I may not be the oldest, but I'm definitely the stiffest.

This modern torture version of the medieval rack continued.  We did stretches, pardon me, “poses” for another 29 agonizing minutes. No pose was done more than twice, but every muscle in my body argued vehemently that this was a lie. My hamstrings pinged like a guitar string.  My deltoids screamed.  Muscles that heretofore had no names let their presence be known. New words raced through my brain that even sailors did not use.

After class as I sat in my chair, breathing hard, with flushed face, and giving thanks for the short distance to the floor which I was sure I would soon be seeing up close, my chair mate quipped "Not much of a work out today.  Maybe the Floor Yoga class next will be more of a challenge."

I remember thinking "If I grab the legs of my chair and give a little jump, maybe I can work my chair over to the door frame where I can pull myself into The Standing-in-Severe-Pain pose. Then, in an hour or two, maybe I could make my way out to the car."

As I was sitting there, a 90 year old man came in with his walker and sat down next to me.

"Want me to put that away for you?" I hopefully asked.

"No.”

With the aid of several wrought iron trellises normally used for climbing ivy, I “walked” myself to the exit.

At the receptionist’s desk, I paused.  The Suggestion Box tempted me. If they are going to call it Chair Yoga, shouldn’t the chair for beginners have wheels? I was about to put the suggestion in the box when a coupon for BenGay caught my eye.

Pain relief trumps suggestions any day.

...And a Half!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for candles and a fire extinguisher

Remember when you were a kid and you were asked how old you were?  If you were very young you might hold up two fingers or three.  Later you would proudly say that you were five and a half.  As you got older you would announce to the entire world that you were twelve going on thirteen.  Your sixteenth birthday may have found you driving, legally.  And at eighteen you were old enough to quit school, marry and/or move out on your own if you were dumb enough to do so.  

Twenty was a bit awkward for most people.  You were no longer a teenager and not old enough to vote but you were old enough to marry so I did.  Approaching the “Don’t trust anyone over thirty” birthday was no big deal because most of us didn’t trust anyone anyway.    My fortieth and fiftieth birthdays were barely acknowledged amidst the birthdays and graduations of six children.

My sixtieth birthday found me retiring from the school where I had taught for 37 years and going to a new school because of (shock of all shocks) Social Security.  It seemed I needed the benefits of my husband’s social security so I had to retire to be rehired. When did the need for social security sneak up on me? Then, just as I was getting semi-comfortable with the concept of Senior Citizen, I was surprised with “Congratulations! You are now the mother of a one day old and a three year old.  Children say hello to your Medicare Mom.” 

Is it no wonder that during this decade of my life only those with a death wish would ask my age and only those who survived to tell their friends would have any inkling of what I said.

The days of telling my age on the fingers of one hand have long gone.  Heck telling my age on my fingers and toes plus the fingers and toes of all my children have been gone a long time.  However, I have adopted the mental age reference of a five year old.

 I am now something-something and a half.  In a few months I will be something-something and three-quarters.  By fall I will be something-something and five-sixths.  By late fall I will be something-something and eleven twelfths. 

By January of next year I will have reached the age of “Shut your mouth before I max out the credit cards, bankrupt social security, apply for a reverse mortgage on the double wide, and move in with you…in Arkansas.”

Like Maxine, I have survived the Stone Age, the Ice Age, the Bronze Age, the Tween-Age, the Teen Age, the New Age, the Hot Flash Age, and the Age of Accountability.

And by all accounts I have now reached Old Age.

 Better have the fire extinguisher ready for my next birthday cake.  It’s going to get HOT!

Senior curb Jumping Reaches New Heights

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for helmets, harnesses, and tire re-alignment

I can drive. I can. In fact, I’ve been doing it for quite a number of years. I can stop, pass, and even turn, as long as it is to the left. Right turns give me a bit of a problem. If I were driving an English car, this would not be the case; however, I drove an American car and my right turns have never been quite right. I think I may be left-brained.

Today I seem to be suffering from right-turn-itis more than usual. After picking up the six-year-old from school I had to travel to the next school to pick up the nine-year-old which necessitated a right turn. Possibly due to the strong winds we have been having, I managed to bump over the curb as I made my right turn. This resulted in a small spill of Sunny D the six-year-old was attempting to drink, a mini volcanic eruption from my morning cup of coffee still sitting in the cup holder, and squeals of delight from the dare devil in the back.


After picking up the nine-year-old I had to make another right turn as we headed home. This time the eye glasses bounced out of the dash compartment onto the floorboard and the nine-year-old said “That’s once.” “No, that’s twice”, corrected the six-year-old and they both giggled and snickered.

At home I dropped off the six-year-old, had the nine-year-old change into her ballet clothes and we left for class. We made a quick detour to check out the gymnastics schedule. This was a left, left, a wide turn to the right, drive, drive, and then a turn to the left into the parking lot. We got the schedules and started to leave.

I do not know why parking lots to not allow sufficient room to negotiate proper turns. It doesn’t require that much more cement. Right, bump-bump, glasses again to the floor, young hands quickly grasping the door handles amidst “Whoppee” and we were off to ballet class and from the back seat I heard “That’s three.”

As I was passing Mickey D’s, I heard the Mocha Frappe siren calling. I tried to resist but it was a left hand turn and I had no will power remaining. I think it got bumped out at the gym.
I had forgotten the drive-through required a right hand turn. Bump bump, and bumpity-bump, the back tires were involved this time. Knowing that my curb jumping was going to be reported to hubby, I decided to diffuse the situation immediately.

“My goodness, I seem to be hitting a lot of curbs today; how many was that?” I asked nonchalantly.
“You mean in the past two hours?”
“Yes.”
“Five,” replied the nine-year-old, “but that’s only since I’ve been in the car. This morning…”
“Of course this car is a bit wider than what I have been used to.”
“You’ve been driving this car ever since I can remember.”
“Yes, but the curbs haven’t always been where they are now.”
“You mean you’ve completely knocked out a whole curb before?”
“Ok, here we are and it’s a left turn.”
“Do you want me to keep counting as you pull away? That’s going to be a right turn, you know.”
“Hurry, you don’t want to be late for your class.”

As I left the ballet studio, I could feel her eyes watching so I made a wide turn to the left and took a short scenic trip down the dead-end street. Luckily there was a circle drive at the end which curved to the left.

My husband is constantly having my tires re-aligned. I told him it was just part of the learning curve; I only recently started senior curb jumping.