Nat has been writing about her strength training recently and I’m impressed by her enthusiasm. Because to my mind, if there’s one activity for which the word, “meh,” applies, it’s strength training. I don’t hate it, but I’d rather do just about anything else: swimming, running, biking, dancing, singing… But I am at that age when strength training becomes essential to the life I want to live in my third act. At the very least, I want to be able to swing a toddler to the rhythm of Beyoncé. But I also hope that retirement will afford me the chance to take up hiking, kayaking, and whatever ever else looks fun.
So, strength training. I have spent the last five years taking various stabs at it, after a bad knee injury took me out of running for a year during Covid times. I did the exercises my physio told me to do, most of the time. I tried various You Tube videos. When I started running again, I told myself I only needed to do 10-15 minutes after my runs, three times a week. I ended up doing ten minutes, sometimes, when I remembered.
In desperation, I joined the gym, hoping that the guilt of paying a monthly membership would prove an incentive. That worked, sort of, but I was still attaching the strength training to a run, so I would invariably cut short the weights workout so I could get to my run. Finally, I lowered the boom. I am not allowed to do ANYTHING other than strength training, twice a week, at the gym—and I must stay in the weight room for ONE HOUR. It doesn’t matter how light the weights are or how little effort I expend. I’m in that place for the hour and there’s no run or swim or bike added on as the real workout. The weights are the workout. The only workout.
Lately I’ve been reading More than Pretty Boxes, Carrie M. Lane’s fascinating glimpse into the world of professional organizers, and I’m reflecting on the wisdom of organizers, who, like coaches, recognize that the only systems that people will adopt, when they need to make changes in their lives, are the ones that work for them. What each of us needs to do, or think, in order to change our behaviors, varies wildly. My goal, as I list the changes that I hope to make in the years ahead (hello, green vegetables!), is to aim for consistency, rather than perfection. My friend Stephanie (who also happens to be a health coach) wisely noted, “60% consistency over a year is better than 100% consistency over a month.”
Who knows, maybe the new year will see me measuring my progress with the weights or trying a dead lift. For now, I’m keeping it simple, in the hopes that habit will fill in the blank space where enthusiasm usually lives.
The recent spectacle in the US of the guy in charge fat-shaming generals and calling for the “the highest male standard” in military fitness made me take a deep breath for about a million reasons — the most significant, of course, being that this is a classic step in solidifying the power of authoritarian regimes by testing military loyalty.
But for this blog, I just thought I’d focus in on the fitness part. (Instead of, you know, the whole grim end of democracy thing).
With all the yammer about a supremely outdated notion of “warriors,” I remembered this booklet in my piles of random paper. When my mother died in 2022, I found this little book from 1962, outlining the Royal Canadian Air Force’s fitness plan for girls and women.
My mom played on her university basketball team in the early 60s (despite her 5.2 height), and then taught gym and coached high school girls’ team sports in the first part of her teaching life. She continued to follow women’s basketball until she died, frequently attending University of Windsor “Lancerettes” games. There was one infamous moment where she, two inches shorter from osteoporosis, craned her head to look at two women from the current team, both at least 6 feet, and said, “I used to be you! Take your calcium!”
But I digress.
So after all the fat-shaming and gender-erasure, I dug out this XBX Plan for fitness. It outlines what the Canadian military thought girls and women should be doing for fitness 63 years ago.
And you know, it’s not so terrible.
Well, maybe not so terrible once you get past the Air-Marshal’s initial message.
The whole thing is definitely gendered in a cringey way, and relies pretty heavily on a “calories in, calories out” formula that persists until today. And the “wishing is not good enough” message is pretty shame-y. But overall, the booklet downplays weight and appearance and focuses on what you actually need to do for general health and wellbeing in that transformative 12 minutes a day.
Basically, there are four sets of 10 exercises, and the intention is to start with the less complex set, with fewer reps, and then to work your way up. I wondered — would I meet the target for my age? How would I fare if I were suddenly thrust into some kind of makeshift resistance army?
The charts were incredibly complicated to figure out, but I had to start with the first hard truth: I am too old to even be doing this. Clearly, at nearly 61, I should be putting on my little fur stole and smoking a cigarette and giving unheeded wisdom to the young people.
Fine. I’m too old? It’s 2025. I put my 60 year old blue hair into little space buns and decided my goal was the same as my 21 year old mother’s.
The chart reminded me of every table I’ve ever fudged related to water safety (tide charts, dive tables, etc.). But I stuck my tongue between my teeth and determined that for Level 35, I should start with the exercises on Chart III, with designated reps for each. (The recommended level for people 50-55 to aim for was 12, so I knew I was biting off a lot).
Exercises 1-4, 2 minute sequence: 15 toe touches, 22 knee raises each side, 18 lateral bends each side, and 40 arm circles each side.
These are all movements we still do today. But it’s way too many reps for the time — it takes me more than three minutes, and I kind of collapse on my ankles on the knee raises trying to go too fast. Soundtrack: Cruel Summer.
Exercise 5: 41 sit ups. Weird, curvy sit-ups. The chart gives me 2 minutes.
I do all 41, but it takes me 2.5 minutes. And I feel kind of angry the whole time. Soundtrack: Little Mix’s Power. Who got the power? Not me.
Exercise 6: Chest and Leg Raising. Kind of like a dynamic bow post in yoga. 39 in 1 minute. This should be fun.
Takes me a minute and a half. It actually feels kind of good? Like a back bend? But like my form is a tasteless free-for-all so who knows what I’m dislocating? Soundtrack: MyOhMy, Camila Cabello and DaBaby. Don’t know how this got into my mix but I’ve stopped questioning anything.
Exercise 7: Side Leg Raising, 60 total (30 each side) in one minute. Kind of like a classic Jane Fonda leg lift, judging by the little diagram.
Takes a full two minutes, and I literally stagger to my feet at the end. I should probably engage those hips more. Soundtrack: WAP. Um. Air Vice-Marshall Orr is going to rise from his grave just to shake his finger at me.
This is actually kind of a lot. I push the thought away.
Exercise 8: Elbow Push Ups. 39 in 2 minutes.
Okay, I can hold a plank for 2 minutes, surely this is fine? Hahahaha, no.
This is the first set I finish within the time frame, but I have to use the extra time for a restorative child’s pose. The cats come in demanding dinner and getting in my way. Justifiable break. Soundtrack: Espresso. Whatever.
Exercise 9: Leg-overs, Tuck. The lower level version of this one is just kind of a yoga twist with a straight leg; this one involves a tuck and… something. Twisting with legs tucked together and then straightening in the centre? 20 in one minute, and I THINK that’s 10 each side. All righty.
I lose track of the counts, but I think I’m doing it right? And like the bow things, this is something I should do more often. Also I really need to vacuum the cat litter off the floor of my office. Soundtrack: Not your Barbie Girl, Ava Max. Where did this playlist even come from? The AI-generated music over this low-tech notebook full of my 20 year old mother’s handwriting is causing some serious temporal dislocation.
Exercise 10: Run and Half Knee Bends. 230 in 3 minutes.
It takes me a full minute to even begin to decipher this one. Run in place, and after every 50 steps do 10 half knee bends (squats, I guess, but the lady is kind of on her toes in her little ballet slippers? Maybe she has Barbie feet?). How does this add up to 230?
This one feels very HIIT, though it’s totally impossible to keep track of reps. And how does this combo add up to 230? I don’t hate it, but the tarsal tunnel nerve issues in my right heel are pretty peeved at me. I should have put shoes on. Soundtrack: I like it, Cardi B, Bad Bunny and J Balvin. Seems about right for my obdurate wokeness.
So in the end? Trying to keep up with the reps made me lose the form and breathing that’s been drilled into me over my own fitness history. But the actual movements aren’t terrible.
These women actually look a lot like my 20-something mother.
The final instruction in the book is very uplifting. To lead a balanced life of ironing and tennis, you need to lift those legs. “Wishing is not good enough,” the Air Marshal guy reminds us again, as his final advice.
He’s not wrong. Sigh. So many things we can’t just wish into being, right now. But we CAN perfect the run-in-place-squat combo. Just to, you know, be ready. For whatever.
Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede-Desmarais, who looks very different at 61 than her great-aunts did in the late 50s.
I have done adult ballet for 20 years now. I did belly dance for an extended period following an injury; and would still be taking classes if I could find one relatively local that fits my schedule. A couple of years ago, I took up jazz.
I only dance a few hours a week, so I don’t wear out my ballet slippers very quickly. My daughter said you weren’t a real dancer until you had bled into your shoes. That kind of misery and lost toenails are not for me. I never intend to dance en pointe, so I am perfectly content to call myself a dancer despite only wearing through the toes on my slippers.
I wore ballet shoes while doing belly dance as I wasn’t keen on bare feet at the local community centre. The same ballet shoes served me well for two years of jazz, but I confess to looking enviously at the jazz shoes others were wearing.
Dance classes are finally starting this week, so I indulged myself in a pair of jazz shoes. It doesn’t matter that I have only one one-hour jazz class each week. I now own two pairs of shoes for two different disciplines.
My new black jazz shoes alongside my pink ballet slippers. I’m secretly excited that my ballet slippers are showing enough wear that I may to replace them some time this year.
I know I’m a dancer even though I don’t fit the stereotype of skinny teenager with big dreams and a tutu. I usually wear leggings and a T-shirt instead of a leotard and tights. I sewed a character skirt more for my own amusement than for actual classes. But different shoes for different kinds of dance? That makes me feel like a “real” dancer.
With three months left in the year, it seemed like a good time to check in with the Fit is a Feminist Issue blog team about how our words of the year for 2025 are working out. Here’s the original WOTY2025 post and our October check-ins.
Cate and Pathways
I picked “pathways” back in January, thinking about turning 60 and what the rest of my life might look like. I think I’ve done some tremendous things from choosing new pathways — including really digging into my creative side and completing the first draft of a novel. It has been a more challenging year in some unexpected ways as well (ranging from a sidelining nerve problem in my foot to lots of family unheaval), but I feel like my feet are firmly on the ground. I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I grow up but I have a lot of clarity about what matters to me.
Nat and Steady
I’ve stuck with my bicycle commute, daily dog walks and regular strength training. Physiotherapy has really paid off for helping me improve my balance. I’m feeling steady on my feet and my bike. Steady as she goes!
Nicole and Believin’
Believin’ – I guess it’s a form of believing to continuing doing the things that anchor you while making your way through a year of grief. Not sold on that, though.
Sam and Engage
I picked “engage” for a year that began with research leave, and I think it worked well for that. I’ve also tried to engage more with friends and family and spend more time with people I love. Now I’m back on campus re-engaging with my dean’s role. I’m still struggling to find ways to engage politically which I think we all have to do, given the state of the world.
Catherine and Compass
Compass was my word for 2025. I said that I had some ideas about where I wanted to go with plans and people and pursuits, but could use some help with navigation. That’s pretty much been true this year. I feel like I’ve asked for and gotten a lot of help from friends and colleagues and family in finding my way to some goals, and also getting clearer about leaving behind some old goals that don’t make so much sense now. I’m happier with my life as it is and with where it’s going. Who can ask for more than that? 😊
Tracyand Confidence
I chose “confidence” because I wanted to stare down my insecurities. I had to remind myself what my WOTY was, which indicates that it hasn’t been an effective guide in the way the WOTY usually is for me (like a touchstone or theme that I can return to in a conscious way throughout the year). But I’ll call on it for these last three months as I put together my last two classes of my teaching career, settle into a new city, and get to know my new camera mirrorless camera after using a DSLR for so many years. I can do this!
Diane and Enjoy
I still haven’t figured out Enjoy. I love my job but I took on too much when Dad was ill, and that continued after he died and I took on big responsibilities for settling his estate and caring for Mom. I did manage snippets of work joy with some fun special projects and getting to know the lovely folks at the pool where I lifeguard most often.
Same with friendships and the cottage – I managed a bit of enjoyment but not the full-on relaxation and quality I hoped for.
Art? Not a chance! I did manage a week away for a craft conference and I am just finishing an on-line course in a string craft that has fascinated me for decades.
I’m already starting to think that next year’s word will need to be acceptance. I have used it before, but more in the context of aging. This time, it will be in the context of learning to be satisfied that I can’t do all the things, but also that I will never stop trying.
I keep trying to coax myself into picking up daily or weekly activities but I keep getting thrown off and having to start over.
But instead of being hard on myself about that I’m heading in a different direction…
Maybe this is just not my season for adding daily/weekly activities but since I still feel drawn toward doing something more, I have decided to pick 10 activities to do this month.
Khalee looks so pensive here but I’m pretty sure she was just trying to ignore me. Image description: Khalee, a light brown medium sized dog wearing a harness facing to the left in the photo so we can only see the left side of her face and upper body. She is staring at the fallen leaves on the path ahead of here and she has her mouth opened a little
And I can do them at any time, in any order, and however I want to do them.
Here’s my list:
Flail along with a Zumba dance video (they won’t be flailing, just me)
Do a yoga video that is longer than 30 minutes
Do a meditation session that is longer than 10 minutes
Do a strength training session with exercise bands
Write in my journal while on the floor
Walk to a meeting
Spend at least 20 minutes stretching
Try a kickboxing video
Plant bulbs for next spring
Meet someone for a walk instead of for tea
I’ll do a few updates as I get things done.
If you don’t hear from me about this, feel free to comment here and ask!
What I thought: Wow, that’s a lot of November hate right there. But the good thing I’ve realized is that I have successfully isolated my dislike of November to November. I think that works well for me. Back when I was a very nervous flier, I read a bunch of counselling books about fear of flying and they all talked about fear of airports, fear of booking tickets, fear of sitting in planes and I realized I was actually doing okay. My fear of flying was limited to flying. Who on earth, I wondered, is scared of sitting on plans on the runway? Lots of people, it turns out. Anyway, I’ve also been chipping away at November-hate itself. I’ve been concentrating on the good things–Mallory’s big concert and Sarah’s birthday! And buying lights to help with all the dark. I also have given in to starting Christmas celebrations early. November needs some holiday spirits, I decided.
What I’ve done so far to get ready for November:
🍁🌧️🥶I bought a bright, floral, pink raincoat from Scribbler, a New Zealand company. I bought it because a) it’s beautiful and bright, and b) you should buy raincoats in places it actually rains a lot and Aotearoa is seriously rainy.
Sam in her bright pink Scribbler raincoat
🍁🌧️🥶 We’ve set time aside to celebrate Sarah’s birthday and to go see Mallory sing in the Karen Schussler Singers concert, Go for Baroque!
Go for Baroque!
🍁🌧️🥶 We’re also going to Montreal for a weekend around the time of Sarah’s birthday.
🍁🌧️🥶 On the fitness front, we’ll be back Zwifting, racing the evenings away.
🍁🌧️🥶 I’m also planning on doing some cooking–making vegan soup. I think my favourite is white bean and kale. How about you?
🍁🌧️🥶 November is also Gratitude Month and I’ll certainly be keeping up my Three Good Things practise. I’ve come to really enjoy that partly because it makes me look for good things.
🍁🌧️🥶 Finally because so much of what’s horrifying these days is political, especially looking south of the border, I’m trying to think of a political commitment I can make to stay engaged. I’m just horrified at the racism and transphobia fueling US policy and at what’s happening to US universities. And I’m very scared of external influence on Canadian elections, not to mention all the 51st state talk. I’m giving money where I can to causes I care about. I’m open to suggestions about what else we can do. Comment below.
A brown leaf with water droplets, Nikolett Emmert (@niki_emmert) | Unsplash Photo Community
For years I’ve been a big fan of working out on Mondays. I like that it sets the time for the week.
But that plan isn’t going so well this fall. First, I’m a bit of a weekend warrior, riding bikes and playing outside. Second, Tuesday is a big workout day with personal training in the morning and Zwift racing in the evening. Third, Tuesday is also my university seminar and I tend to spend Sunday preparing.
So I’m reminding myself it’s okay to take it easy Monday. I can love Monday without working out. I reread an older post of mine about Mondays. It’s good advice. I need to take it.
CW: discussion of body weight, weight gain and body shaming.
This week in the New York Times Ethicist column (written by a famous and very good and very nice philosopher, Kwame Anthony Appiah), the featured question was by a couple who expressed their concern about their adult daughter’s weight.
Sigh. Really?
Okay, I guess there are people on the planet that haven’t yet gotten the memo that talking to people about their weight is virtually always (as a philosopher I admit that maybe there’s some strange exceptional case, but I can’t think of one) the wrong thing to do.
Basically, the daughter used to take dance classes, which the parents really liked. But she doesn’t dance now, and they think she eats too much sugar and fat in her diet. They ask for advice from the Ethicist, wrapping it up this way:
She may be headed for a serious weight problem. How can we raise this with her without making her feel self-conscious or judged, and without pushing her away from us? We love and respect her and want to see her live a healthy life. Please advise!
This would now be the perfect time for the Ethicist to say, kindly:
Be quiet. Do not talk to her about this. Say nothing. Shhh!
Shhh! By Kristina Flour for Unsplash.
But no. He didn’t do that. Instead he said this (an excerpt from his response here from the New York Times):
If the undertone of your concern is nostalgia for the lean dancer she used to be, she will hear it, no matter what words you choose, and you’ll only push her away.
If, however, what you truly want is to support her well-being, then speak to her as an adult, with respect and candor, rather than as a child whose body you wish were different. That means keeping the focus on health and family history. Make sure she knows the concern comes from love, not disappointment — that your concern is for her well-being, not her waistline.
Well, the NYT commenters had other thoughts.
This frog begs to differ. So do I.
There were 1.1K comments this week, and, while I didn’t read all of them, they were pretty much of one voice about talking to the daughter (or anyone, ever) about their weight. Here’s one of my favorite comments:
Don’t comment on others’ weight. Never. Not when they’re pregnant, not when they’ve lost weight, not when they’ve gained weight, not when they have cancer. It is never helpful.
Some folks in the comments section were genuinely interested in whether there was something you COULD say that would be helpful. Here’s how that went:
“There has to be a way to productively comment on someone’s weight in a way that will help them.”
If that were true, don’t you think we would’ve hit on it by now?
Yep. Totes agree.
I liked this response, too:
To the mother asking “Should I tell my daughter I’m concerned about her weight?” – Trust me: you already have.
Many commenters told stories about having been fat-shamed by family and then distancing themselves in order to maintain their own well-being. Others maintained contact but still feel the hurt. They all agreed:
Just don’t do it. Ever.
Lots of questions about personal interactions are complicated. This one isn’t. The NYT commenters have spoken.
Twelve years ago this past month, I was on a trip with my family, and we had to run a great distance to get to our airplane gate. We did get there, but not before they closed the doors. It took me 45 minutes to recover from my run that felt like hundreds of kilometres but was probably closer to one and a half kilometres (the gates are very far apart in Frankfurt!).
As I sat there — red faced, sweaty, lungs exhausted by the effort — I made a resolution. I had, over the years, run 10-mile races, rowed in regattas, walked trails, swam lengths, played field and floor hockey, and lobbed balls of all sorts, with a decent amount of enjoyment. But back in 2013, I was out of shape, and I felt it.
It was past time to take my fitness seriously again. A good friend had been powerlifting for a while and was loving it. I found a trainer and began. My first visits to the gym were painful. There was so much I found difficult and awkward. The muscle aches the day after weren’t great either.
Somehow, I kept going. I signed up for ten-session blocks and did that for more than a year. I settled into a routine. I kept going back. Again and again.
Things got less awkward. I learned how to use the tools. I learned to listen to my body, to push it, and then push some more. If I skipped a session due to illness or holidays, I missed it. I never thought I would feel the absence of hard physical effort keenly, but I was there.
So 12 years on, what have I learned? It takes patience and persistence, along with a good bit of bloody-mindedness. It’s consistency, curiosity and commitment. I won’t break any world records because the only person I am competing against is me, but every day I move forward, I am more confident in my strength, more comfortable with my body’s ability to do the things I want and need it to do.
This month, I approached the midpoint of my 60s, almost a decade past my initial vow of Fitat55. I am looking forward to the next decade with excitement: what will I take on next in my continuing goal of functional fitness? I can’t wait to find out.
