Water baby

My synagogue held a fund-raiser a few weeks ago, and I ended up being the high bidder for a one-month membership at the Davis Athletic Club ($30—woo hoo!), so yesterday morning I activated it and went to the 8 a.m. aqua aerobics class. I'd been to it before, a few years ago when I was a regular DAC member, and my body has been wanting to get back to it.

This early-morning class is taught in what DAC calls the functional therapy pool. It's considerably smaller than the lap pool and—much the best feature—the water is warm; yesterday the announced temp was 88 degrees. So even if the air is chilly, entering the water feels wonderful. And you can get a good workout, or at least you can if you're not chit-chatting with your classmates the entire time; that element hasn't changed since I was last there. Clearly, some people see the class as a chance to catch up on their friends' lives and fill them in on their own. I know several of the women (and most of the class is female, though there are a few men), and I'm sure they think I'm antisocial because I don't engage with them when they greet me, but I don't want to multi-task during a workout, and besides, I'm concentrating too much on following the instructor (who is quite good and has the patience of Job; if I were she, I'd banish all the talkers to the far corner of the pool and tell 'em to yak out of the way of other people who are there to actually exercise. Harrumph.).

On the other hand, it's a good place to get your head on straight regarding body image. Like many women, I've spent a good deal of my life being critical of various parts of my body—legs too big, breasts too small, upper arms too flabby, blah blah blah—the only variations on the theme being the parts currently under the microscope. But spend some time watching older women emerge from the locker room and enter the pool. Talk about your variations in size and shape. As you might expect, given the time of this class, nearly all the students are "mature"; i.e., well into their 60s, some in their 70s, maybe a few 80-year-olds. Looking at them, with all their lumps, veins, and bulges, I felt simultaneous relief and humility. Relieved that despite my less-than-ideal weight and fitness level I'm in way, way better shape than most of them, and humbled (and a bit ashamed ) to think that I'm so damned vain. Good time to get over myself.

P.S. As promised, here are a couple of pictures of the results of Sunday's planting spree:

Salvia (foreground), Moroccan mint and lavender
(non-working fountain visible in background)

The herb pot
(basil, parsley, oregano, chives)
Blue Moon lobelia

Babz' Bistro