"I Can Do It Myself"

I remember the day I decided to join a gym to get in shape. (I must confess: This is undoubtedly my umpteenth attempt at this endeavor over the years.) Usually, I start enthusiastically, but then I don't stick with it for very long. I never "feel" like working out. Anyway, I convinced myself that it would be different this time. A brand-new, shiny ladies' gym was opening up in my favorite plaza. Perfect. I mused. I'll work out, then reward myself with a little shop-therapy afterwards.

I went up to the reception desk to register. A skinny, overly cheery clerk greeted me in a syrupy tone of voice. "Hi...like... welcome to our gym. It's totally sic that you are here. If you need any help ... like...filling out your forms, Sweetie, I can ... like... totally help you, for sure!"

I almost gagged. "Thanks, I think I can do it myself."

The registration was three pages long. Name, address ... When it came to the weight line, I left that one blank.

She looked over my answers and said, "Oooo, h-o-n-e-y, you ... like...forgot to fill in your weight... chuckle."

"Exactly, honey," I chuckled in return. "I judge by how my pants fit."

She frowned, "Uh huh... well...excuse me a minute." After going to get her boss's approval, she took my papers and suggested I start with chair yoga. Frankly, I was getting more annoyed by the minute. "Do you need help finding the locker room?" she asked kindly.

"No ... like ... I can do it myself."

I felt older by the minute. I was being treated as if the bus from the nursing home had just dropped me off. As kind and sweet as the young clerk was, I didn't like the inference.

On my way to the locker room, I peeked into the chair yoga class. "Gee, these are just a bunch of old people" (granted, I'm over 70, but...). The instructor spotted me and waved me in. Next thing I knew, I was in the front row for the last few minutes of the class.

"Now we stretch this way..."

I had my pride to defend, so I stretched a little farther than the lady on my left. The teacher stopped the class and pointed to me, "You have to stimulate your Chi..."

My what? Is that short for chimichanga?

Miss Susie here is happy to show you that pose?"

"No thanks, I can do it myself."

The class was over in about ten minutes. I decided my Chi was stimulated enough. (Besides, I was already thinking about the little Mexican restaurant in the plaza.) So, I headed to the locker room to change into my street clothes. In the process, I noticed a woman across the room who looked a bit familiar, but without my glasses, I couldn't tell for sure. I didn't want to stare, but I noticed the poor thing was having trouble bending to put on her slacks, and I noticed something odd. When I moved, she moved! When she moved, I moved! That's when I realized they had FULL-LENGTH MIRRORS in the locker rooms!

I left the gym in a bad mood. People were treating me like I was a senior citizen or something. My mood improved when I entered Macy's. They were having a huge sale. I was on a mission to purchase new underwear with a little added tummy control. The last time I'd been in that store was after I'd gone to a chiropractor because of some back trouble. He cracked and prodded here and there and then announced, "You're MENOPAUSAL! Buy a girdle." (Can you believe that remark?) He continued, "It will help you hold your stomach muscles in."

"Thanks," I coldly replied. "I can do it myself."

I was indignant. I'd never owned a girdle in my life. However, I decided it wouldn't hurt to try one, so I headed to that department. My ego picked out a size small. My need was more like a large. Well, I got one foot into the left leg of the girdle quite easily, and I managed to get the second leg in, but when I tried to pull it up past my ankles, I lost my balance and went sprawling through the dressing room curtain and landed flat on my face just a few feet from the entrance of the dressing rooms, face to face with a gentleman who was sitting on a bench waiting for his wife. "Do you need my help getting up? He said to my red face.

"Thanks, I can do it myself."

Luckily, he had enough respect to turn the other way so I could have some privacy as I attempted to get up off the floor with a size small girdle strangulating my lower legs.

There is absolutely NO moral to this blog except that getting old requires a sense of humor, or you'll never leave home.

Enter new husband: Robert cared for his former wife for 15 years before she passed away. She'd had a stroke and needed his help. Miss Independence here was not used to being helped. I'd gotten plenty independent over 17 years as a widow. Sweethearted, Robert, noticed me bending to put my socks on one morning, and he politely asked, "Dearest, would you like me to help you put your socks on?"

"What? No you can NOT help me put my socks on ... I can DO IT MYSELF!" He was only trying to be helpful, but I had to explain I need to do it myself as long as I can -- even if I groan while doing it.

Being married is wonderful ... a huge adjustment for this independent gal. I've had to learn that my husband's love language is to help me whenever and however he can. As a matter of fact, I haven't opened a car door once since we got married. Even though "I can do it myself."

Enter reality: Just so you know, I'm learning to graciously accept people's help. It's humbling... and it's a good thing... for example, I was attempting to climb the bleachers at a Finney basketball game and lost my balance. A gentleman caught me before I fell. Pheww! I was probably the oldest person there. This grandma was very grateful, because, in reality, I can't really do it all myself.