By Minx McCloud Special Writer
I am proud to say that I have been faithful to my weight loss program for a full eight weeks, unheard of in MinxLand for at least the past five years. Even my husband is impressed.
I am depending on a local fitness club that has a pool for exercise. I shall refer to it as “The Oasis,” to protect myself from being drowned by the other members.
My doctor suggested that I take pool aerobics because when I’m in the water, the arthritis in my ankle, stenosis in my spinal column, and bursitis in my shoulder do not hurt as much.
So far, I have lost 10 pounds because of the gall bladder attack and 15.5 pounds with Weight Watchers. That’s 25.5 pounds in eight weeks, and I’m already feeling better.
The pool class is fun (three one-hour sessions a week, and treadmill), but very exhausting if you do it properly. Anyone who thinks you can’t sweat in a swimming pool has never taken a really grueling pool aerobics class.
There are about 15 of us on any given day. We exercise in varying degrees. One small group of women prefers to chat during the session, and if they aren’t kicking as high as the rest of us, well, that’s their business. They’re moving and having fun.
I’m a regular dynamo. No matter what “Meredith,” our instructor is doing, I prefer to do my own thing. I figure the more movement, the more calories burned, and that’s what it’s all about, folks. I’m moving hands and arms constantly.
You should see the wake we kick up you’d think the Queen Mary had arrived in Hillsborough. Seismographs register at Rutgers when we hop around in the pool. People trying to swim laps are swamped and pushed ever southward toward Montgomery.
I can’t speak for the others, but I have those danged bat wings under my arms. You know .. . those flabby things that hang down. Bat, flying squirrel, it’s all the same. When I pump my arms up and down, the only thing that keeps me from taking flight is my extra poundage.
It was during one of these attempts at flying that I realized I was sprouting quite a crop of hair under my arms (Note to self: must shave or find bathing cap for armpits). I’ve gotten so complacent in my marriage that I rarely shave anymore. Since my hysterectomy eight years ago, I have not had to shave my legs at all. They are smooth and hairless. My chin, unfortunately, has to be mowed every day.
Meredith thinks up lots of interesting exercises. It’s a shame that some of us cannot figure out what she’s doing. “Left leg, up and down. Right leg, up and down. Now both legs .. .” What? Glug, glug, glug, I’m going down for the third time.
I knew there were a lot of senior citizens in the group, so I figured, how hard can this be? Within 15 minutes, I was panting. I had but two questions. “How close are we to the Somerset Medical Center Cardiac Unit?” and “Is Meredith certified in CPR?”
”It will be easier the next time you come,” she said.
”Maybe,” I replied, “but you’re assuming that I’m going to come back.”
I actually enjoy the exercises where we have to bring our knees up to our chests. They’re easy for me because my “chest” is now so much closer to my knees than it was 30 years ago.
And that brings up another question: To strip or not to strip in the locker room. At first I was very shy. I slunk from the shower to the lockers with a towel wrapped around me, but the towel wasn’t big enough, so I would yell a warning like, “Fat lady walking. Butt hanging out.” Everyone would avert their eyes as if they were Dracula and I was a clove of garlic.
Finally, I figured, the heck with this. We’ve all got the same body parts. I just have more. Besides, I noticed that other women were walking around with their varicose veins, sagging tummies, warts and moles, and they didn’t seem a bit embarrassed.
Now I wrap the towel around myself and leave it so only my hip is showing. Once I get to my locker, I’m on my turf, so I’ve figured out strategic ways to get my clothes on without complete frontal nudity.
Bras (and sometimes panties) are impossible to put on a damp body, so I slip on my shirt and a windbreaker and leave the Oasis without undies. That way I’m not tempted to stop for a fattening snack on the way home. I’m not tempted to stop anywhere.
(God help me if I ever get in a car accident. “Er, doctor, this is very odd. She has no underwear on and she’s wet … and it’s 37 degrees outside.” And my mother was always worried about my panties being clean.)
I draw the line at the hot tub though. The sign says we cannot wear anything in the hot tub, which means “Naked Soaking Only.” The management will be displeased to know that none of us older women go in nude.
Perhaps at night, the place turns into a singles club where anything goes nubile young women splashing around au naturel but not our group. And the club advertised a hot tub, which was a selling point for some of us. They did not say “Hot tub available only for the uninhibited.”
What’s really funny is to watch the members circle the parking lot for five minutes to get a space closest to the building.
Then we all go inside and knock ourselves out kicking and flapping, while exchanging recipes and recommendations for restaurants.
By the way, the kitchen area has the requisite vending machine that has me licking my chops after every class. I stand there salivating, wondering if Oreo cookies will cancel out an hour of exercise hell. Luckily I have an apple and a bottle of water.
Yeah, I’m so lucky.
Minx McCloud is a freelance writer who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected]

