Disorientation

I am reading an upsetting story about a collision that left a local cyclist paralysed earlier this month:

Toronto businessman John Ruffolo has been paralyzed below the waist after being hit by a transport truck last Wednesday while cycling. Ruffolo, 54, is one of Canada’s most well-known investors in the technology start-up scene, having backed several successful emerging companies such as Hootsuite and Shopify Inc.

My first thought is, oh no, that’s an awful story. And my second is, “oh, it was an older guy riding a bike.”

That “older guy” is a year younger than I am.

Severe disorientation.

In my mind, 54 is “an older guy.” It’s a category. But in my body, I am just me, somehow floating out and beyond categories.

“I look tired”

I get up for a 730 am outdoor spinning class. I look at myself in the mirror as I’m getting ready and think “I look TIRED.”

Correction, I think. I look OLD.

I remember that when I was about 42, I dated someone who was 11 years older than I was. I remember thinking at the time that he looked much older when he was tired. Oooooh, I remember thinking. That’s what aging is. Your face muscles get softer when you’re tired.

**

Birthday parties

I host a socially distanced birthday dinner on my terrace for my friend Elena, who turned 40 at the beginning of September. My mother says “you have friends who are turning 40?” I realize that four of my closest friends turned 40 this year. One of them mentions that she forgets we are 15 years apart until I remind her. The partner of another once famously remarked that he had a lot more fun with me than he expected with someone “so much older.”

***

Yes, I’m still menstruating.

Just in case you were wondering.

**

Rules

Ten years ago, I was talking to a fellow alum from my PhD program about why she’d shifted into teaching instead of consulting. “Female consultants in their 50s aren’t taken seriously anymore,” she said, seriously. “I thought teaching was a much better way to end my career.“

I think about her, frequently, in my work as a 50-something female consultant. What was that?

Inevitable decline

As I write this, I get the terrible, sad and frightening news of the death of Ruth Bader Ginsberg, who resisted decline until her last days. But sheer will and purpose are not enough to counter age and the inevitable winding down of the body. That seems more… poignant, right this moment.

My body, 2020

In 2020, I notice that I get super tired more easily. I look distinctly soft around the edges, more worn, in the mirror in the morning. Since my trip to Salt Spring in August, my multi-tasker seems to be sputtering — I can’t hold or juggle nearly as much at once as I have typically done. Bits of my body are behaving weirdly — nerve pain in my foot, a sensation of grinding in my hip on my bike, shoulder pain from sleeping oddly. Friends my age have what I always thought of as Old People illnesses. My sister comments that my razor-sharp memory is softer than it used to be.

Is it 2020 and all its strains, or is it some complex series of subtle changes in my body reminding me that regardless of some markers of fitness — how frequently I work out, how much I could lift back in February when we lifted heavy things, how good it feels to spin — that slowly, all of my cells are just less… juicy.

For a long time, I’ve been really clear that I don’t see aging as inherently about deficits — that I’m not likely to be the kind of person who says “I might have done [insert any adventurous thing] when I was younger, but I wouldn’t now.” I resisted what felt like “giving up,” the notion that I could just turn over my body — and life — to some passive process of letting go of options, letting go of strength, like floating on a warm lazy river. Resisting the idea that some doors would close, that I had to inherently become more cautious, less adventurous, less ambitious in my wanderings.

And yet. I do have less stamina. I can’t run as fast as I used to. I am softer around the middle, and my skin has less resilience. I don’t often feel fully rested. I don’t feel compelled to try to keep up with other people who ride faster. I don’t get mad that they go faster — but I just need to go my pace. My body is — subtly, slowly — starting to wind down. Being active can stave off some of the effects of aging but we are still going to age.

**

What even is age?

At this moment in western history, age — like gender — is a more fluid concept than ever before. When I was a kid, 55 was old, clearly defined as a space where the choices made earlier in life were supposed to be paying off in the ability to retire, to bask in the devotion of grandchildren, to step back from defining and shaping the world and to float into the old age that was just around the corner.

That… is not true now. But we aren’t sure how to define what it is. I’m not old, but I am old-er. The younger people in my life protest if I say I’m old — and I know they are saying I’m fit, I’m adventurous, I’m playful. But it’s not all mind over matter. When my accountant points out I need to be planning a retirement within 5-10 years, he is correct. My body regularly clears its throat and reminds me that I’m not 50, let alone 30 or 40. But how do I bring together this sense that I’m just … me, active and energetic and fit and restless and adventurous, and I’m still on an inevitable, irresistible trajectory toward winding down?

I was working with one of my coaching clients the other day who is roughly my age. We talked about how his sense of “ambition” has evened out, how he is more mellow, more interested in teaching others than in driving for new research. I hear the same thing from that ex I had from my early 40s, who was always a super driven scientist, who scorned teaching. Now he’s talking about how much joy he gets from “teaching the kids how to do it.”

In both of these, I recognize what the human development theorist Erik Erikson talked about as the 7th phase of life, which he pegged at 40 – 65. In this phase, he believed, people can stagnate, or they can choose a path of generativity. Generativity in his definition means “giving back” — creativity, engaging with the next generation, teaching, sharing wisdom, trying to create a better space for who comes next. Like RBG.

I like this. I like thinking of myself as “generative” rather than “aging.” I like that when my body tells me to slow down, it can be a reminder to make choices about which work I choose to do, who I choose to engage with. Less energetic time can be a frustration — or it can be a container in which to be more choiceful. To let go of work, relationships, activities that fill extra space. Streamlining.

RBG certainly spent every year of her life being choiceful. Incredible focus, sustaining her body, fiercely improving the world. She was the epitome of generative. An icon to hold in front of me as I notice the reminders in my own body that there will, inevitably, be an end. As I make peace with the truth of this fit, strong, tired, aging, miraculous body of mine.

Cate Creede lives in Toronto, where tonight she is mourning the loss of Justice Ginsberg.

I have a lovely collection of water bottles and carafes. I stash them all over the house, so where ever I go, I always have water handy. These past few years, we have been experiencing uncharacteristically humid spells and maintaining myself adequately hydrated hasn’t always been easy.

I have tried the phone beeps, the Fitbit buzzes, the water challenges with my peers, and even a post it note on the shelf at eye-level commanding me to DRINK!

I have friends who swear by drinking a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon (others squeeze the juice of a whole lemon) first thing before breakfast. If I drink anything hot in the morning, it’s coffee. While I love lemon, hot water is not my thing. I also can’t drink water with ice unless I have a straw, so several of my water carafes have built in straws.

When I first started training, I did show up with a water bottle because I knew I was going to get hot and sweaty. I used to run (I once signed up for a ten kilometre race except it turned out to be a ten mile race) and water was really critical. I’m not a fan of sports drinks generally (although I have found a brand and a flavour that I love).

I got to thinking about how much water we should be drinking. Most of the health apps have a water calculator so you can check off your eight 8oz glasses daily. Where did that come from? According to the Mayo Clinic, it was the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine that came up with the recommendation that on average, living in a temperate climate, men should drink almost 16 cups and women should drink almost 12.

But that’s an average. Some people need more and some people need less. If your weather is excessively hot, or you are a very active person, you may need more.

Also, about 20% of that water comes from food and other beverages. Hence the simple reminder about eight glasses daily. Water helps flush your system (no need to spend money on fancy cleanses!) and keeps all your body chemicals balanced. You can drink too much water and you can also drink too little. My system of three to four bottles, while a little cluttery on table tops, does remind me of how much I have consumed, and if I should drink a little more to keep myself properly hydrated.

How about you readers? What tips do you use to keep your fluid intake level optimal? Please share in the comments.

MarthaFitat55 is writer who likes powerlifting, yoga, and swimming.

CW: this post discusses my relationship with food. This isn’t about whether someone should eat to lose weight or not. It discusses disordered eating.

I find myself wondering these days if certain things about me are “basic”. My over-posting of pictures of freshly baked sourdough bread or Saturday brunch. My over-sharing on social media, in general. My decades-old pondering about what sort of career would be meaningful and purposeful for me and my chagrin over earlier life choices that relate to the choices I have in that area now. Another area, I think is so tired and should be old news is my decades-old brain battle over food and whether it’s a friend or a foe. I believe that none of us are served by diet culture. I like the idea of mindful eating, but it’s not something I feel I do easily. I am also very aware that there are real issues in the world relating to true hunger and lack of food security and my food issues are only one of my existing privileges.

My brain has two sides doing battle when it comes to food. One side loves food. That’s the side that loves to cook and bake; take chef classes; recreate dishes enjoyed elsewhere; plan trips around good coffee shops and interesting restaurants; and share pictures of my food. The other side monitors food. That’s the side that keeps a mental log of what I’ve eaten. It’s not intentional. It’s ingrained. Whether I “should” be eating a treat or not. The side that’s prone to feelings of annoyance and guilt towards myself. At different stages of my life, annoyance was more often disgust or shame. That side has evolved and quieted over the years, but it’s still there.

When the two sides collide, there can be some bingeing involved. Quick injections of savoury chips or sour and sweet candy. The collision happened more frequently when I lived on my own. When I had more time to sit in my thoughts. To succumb to my tiredness. To try to fill a seemingly empty pit in my stomach that could only feel something if it were filled to the brim. There was a very brief period in my late teens, early 20s when I experimented with purging, but thankfully I was more angry with myself for the purging than the bingeing, and it didn’t stick.

Collisions happen less often these days. I try to ignore the food critic in my head. I think of it as active meditation. If I have an unhelpful thought. I try to let it pass. Unjudged. And then relax and let myself enjoy what I choose to eat. Which is often salads and hummus and tofu and rice. It can be a slice of freshly baked bread or a sugar crusted scone. It might be a bowl of nutella gelato topped with sprinkles or a bag of sour candy or pungently flavoured chips.

Old habits are hard to break. It makes me think about what is feeding my hunger. Sometimes I am ravenous because I am tired. Sometimes I am premenstrual and the cravings are physically present. The tingly skin. Longing in my throat. Craving sugary and saltiness, a little at a time and over and over again until my cravings have subsided. More often than not, a small amount of something will satisfy my cravings. No binge required.

The hunger could be more psychological than physical. It could be from a place of restriction. Or, it could just be physical hunger. And it’s OK to feed hunger.

The food-loving part of my brain was weaned on celebrations revolving around well-made, delicious, comfort foods, passed down through generations. Food can elicit feelings of love and warmth in these situations. It has an ease in the kitchen around certain tasks. It finds comfort and joy in each stage of making a delicious meal. It loves seeing people enjoy the food I’ve made.

The critical part of my brain was conscious from an early age that society might think I was not the “ideal” size. There as no such thing as an ideal size, but my young self did not know. The critical part of my brain encouraged me to start dieting when I was around 12. Started monitoring how many french fries I ate at lunch with my friends. Fed a steady diet of glossy ’80s magazines about the correct way to look. That side of my brain made the warmth and love derived from food complicated. It made family functions stressful for awhile. It made my brain fill with silly slogans from diet culture, such as “nothing tastes as good as thin feels”, which is, of course, utter bullshit, but the point is that crap made eating for the joy of it, and nothing else, very complicated (at least in my brain, if not in reality).

I remember a time in my 30s I had convinced myself that it was a good idea to go to a diet clinic where they help you lose weight by making you blow into an oxygen machine, which apparently tells you how many calories your metabolism normally burns, and based on that they give you a diet plan to follow. The diet plan was simply a calorie restriction plan that accounted for your regular metabolism plus any activity you were doing. In addition to that, you met with the doctor in the clinic, who talked to you about the psychology of your habit with food. This doctor was on a popular show on a cable network at the time, so he must have known what he was talking about… I remember it was getting close to my birthday and we talked about having a treat for my birthday, which he was in favour of, until I told him that the treat I wished for was fish and chips. He proceeded to tell me how fish and chips was the worst possible food on the planet because of the trans fats that were generated when frying the fish. Yes, this doctor believed that one meal of fish and chips was a big mistake. I was so brainwashed by him that I went and told my friends, that unfortunately, I couldn’t have fish and chips on my birthday because they were the “worst food” for you ever. They laughed at me, just as much as they should have. What a wasted birthday meal that was!

Exercise has helped my relationship with food. And I don’t mean in the “justifying my food” way, or in the “calories in”, “calories out” way. I mean that over the years, the more exercise has become a regular part of my life, the more it has helped me feel the good things in my body. It has made me feel strong. It has made me feel capable. The endorphins or generated serotonin help me forget about caring about what I eat or don’t eat. Choosing communities to work out in, that don’t focus on nutrition plans and trends, has helped me to block out that noise that I hate. I have long told myself that if I workout regularly, eat a balanced diet, including occasional treats, whatever that looks like is “A OK”.

It still takes a lot of blocking out the noise around me. It takes blocking out “wellness” plans being touted in the corporate world. It takes blocking out friends and family talking about how keto was the only way they can lose weight after 40. It takes ignoring the stupid jokes about the “Covid 15” that don’t help anyone. Perhaps, the key is not to try to “block” the noise, but to let it pass unjudged.

I’m OK with being “basic” in areas such as social media shares. But I’d like to live more what I know when it comes to not being driven by the food police in my head. I feel much more balanced about food, in general. But the food police are not totally silent, no matter how much I know better. The food police mentality, no doubt, still leads to moments of insatiable hunger. I’d like my default response to be “so what”. Satiate the hunger. OR I can choose not to. The choice is mine. But ditch the self-judgment. Hunger and food aren’t the problem. The way I look at hunger and food are the problem. The way society looks at female hunger is the problem. There are much more important tasks at hand than worrying about it. I’d like to fire the food police in my head once and for all.

In the Before Times, I traveled a lot. And one of my favourite things to do if I spent more than a couple of days in another city was to go to a local yoga studio. I’d buy a pass for a week or two, and then get a real sense of being in the local community by experiencing what slow flow or hatha felt like in another place.

I’m still on the regular mailing list for yoga studios in Vancouver, Portland and Melbourne, and every time I get a little update or announcement about some community event, I get a little flicker of a reminder of what it was like to be in downward dog in another place, feeling like I belonged. (Even if my shape was imperfect, like the one in this photo). Many many times, random yoga studios = automatic community, to me. (Not always — I went to a class with my cousin in Edmonton once that left us both bemused — and she’s a yoga teacher. But we bonded over its weirdness, so it was still fantastic).

Six full months into pandemic lockdown, many of those spaces all over the world are closing for good or struggling immensely.

This week, I got one of the regular updates from my favourite studio here in Toronto, a couple of blocks away. We are really struggling, said the owner. We thought more people would come back in phase 3 but they haven’t. If we can’t generate more revenue, we will have to close. For now, I’ll teach a lot of the classes myself and see if we can find our way back.

This studio — Chi Junky — is a beautiful space, with fantastic teachers. They’ve pivoted to virtual classes and yoga in the park, but people have got in the habit of staying home.

My spinning studio Torq Ride — also amazing — is doing a little bit better, because it’s been able to move classes outside into an alley. But those classes are 25% the size of normal classes. And both Torq and Chi Junky just completed big renos just before the lockdown.

Many people — like me — might be willing to do socially distanced classes inside if it were only their health at possible risk, but we’re all in a web of responsibility, owe protection to the people we love, and the people they love and come into contact with. So most of the people I know are being cautious — and we should — but the small places that mean so much, that are a labour of love, are at huge risk.

So here is my request to the FIFI community: today, if you can, buy a class pass for some virtual classes from one of the small, independent studios that have contributed so much to their communities. Anywhere in the world. Go nuts — find a random class in some city you’ve always wanted to visit, even! Take a class in London UK, or Melbourne, Singapore or Capetown. Wander freely.

Or, buy some swag. (Chi Junky has “Zen AF” masks). Pay your monthly fee to your independent gym, even if you’re not going back for a while. (As I’m doing for the gym across the street). Send them a note telling them how much you value them. They need to hear it.

As I told the manager of Torq the other day, I’m totally there for their virtual classes when they start up again — I’d much rather give them my money than Peloton. And for now, I’m doing all my virtual yoga from Chi Junky (classes are about $9), instead of my beloved Yoga with Adriene (where I also pay for a monthly subscription).

Here are a few of my faves you could buy virtual classes in right now — I know you have some of your own as well. Let me know in the comments what you’re doing to support independent fitness while staying safe.

Chi Junky yoga (slow flow, yin, sweat flow, restorative)

Alex’ superhero strength and conditioning classes so many of us do

Nicole Starker Campbell yoga (my cousin — she’s a great teacher!)

Spirit Loft yoga and movement classes (if you want your weight in animal flow :-))

Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who lives in Toronto and is very happy that it’s still warm enough to spin outside.