A few weeks ago, I watched a Netflix documentary called, “Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones,” which is about five areas of the world where people live longer and have more centenarians among their populace than any civilized areas on earth.  People don’t tend to get sick, demented, or flabby, and the population appears downright giddy with the joy of living.  The theory for the incredible health and well-being of the people in these communities comes down to what we already know:  exercise, sleep, nutritious food, spiritual faith, and social interaction are key to living long, vigorous lives. 

I thought about this as I brushed my teeth the next morning.  Do I follow the basic tenets of good health?  I looked in the mirror at my puffy eyes and puffier mid-section, and cursed when my back spasmed as I pulled a towel from the shelf.  I recalled the 101-year-old woman in the documentary, partying it up in her home in Okinawa, dancing and singing, clapping her hands, and twirling like a 15-year-old.  She looked great, even with her snow-white hair and sunbaked face.  She looked charged, happy, healthy.  I want that.  I want to sing and twirl and be able to pick up a package that weighs more than ten pounds without thinking twice before I commit.  Why is it that I can’t stick to a fitness regimen?  

Over the years I have made countless attempts to live a healthier lifestyle.  I don’t train for marathons or cycling races, or ability to press my own weight, I just want to be able to pick up a potato chip off the floor without wrenching my back. 

One evening a couple years ago, I walked my dogs outside to do their business. It was dark and I didn’t see a tube of metal fencing on the patio until I stepped on it. It rolled and I went airborne, landing hard on my left side, causing a hairline fracture to my hip and sacrum. 

Three hours later I was in a hospital bed, groggy with morphine. The on-call ortho surgeon leaned over me and patted my hand. “You’re a lucky lady.” he said. “This could have been much worse.” He went on to say that I would not need surgery, just six weeks of rest while my bones miraculously repaired themselves. I gave him a dry-mouthed thank you, then thanked God, then thanked the morphine. I closed my eyes and repeated to myself, “lucky lady, lucky lady.” The truth is, it was my body I should be thanking. It had rallied; it was tenacious and resilient. I had not shattered on the cement. Though I often berated my body because I did not like the size, shape or weight of it, it had remained as true to me as a faithful friend. A moment of complete clarity elbowed through the fog in my head: I will not take wellness for granted.

Spurred on by my narrow escape from disaster and desire to be a good friend to my body, I began a healthful regimen as soon as I was able. I went for early morning walks. I ate mostly healthy foods. I went to the gym twice a week and joined a yoga class.  Living with healthier habits made me feel lighter, less creaky, and more energized; I was awash with joie de vivre. This lasted about six months.

And then it went away.  I cannot tell you why.

My morning walks became much less frequent, and I can’t remember the last time I went to the gym. I have healthy eating cookbooks, but the food just isn’t as good as say, the recipes in my Gullah Geechee Low Country cookbook.  I quit my weekly yoga class because the advanced moves made me feel clumsy and inadequate and, frankly, stirred up my gut. I replaced live yoga with an app for beginners.  This lasted only a few lessons, because the last time I tried it, one of the bendier moves sent me windmilling into the corner of the couch and I broke my toe.

To try and compensate for giving up on everything else, I joined an over-50 exercise group that meets three times a week for stretching and a bit of cardio.  The women, with their grey or white hair twisted on top of their heads or cut into short bobs, wear jeans and sweatshirts decorated with kittens, birds, or grandchildren.  Most are well over the requisite 50 years; most are in their 80s, including the instructor.  The room is always uncomfortably warm, so I work up a good sweat, even though the exercises are not terribly strenuous. There is no music.  There is no air conditioning.  There is no variation in the routine.  Ever.  During most classes, I stood behind a woman of clearly advanced age. Whenever we did leg lifts, I stayed poised to catch her because she always seemed on the verge of tipping over. Thankfully, she was able to right herself before going over backward. As we left the gym one day, someone called out to her, “See you Wednesday, Tippy!” Her name is Tippy? I wondered if it was a nickname given because of her unsettling moves, or if it was actually her name. Either way, I thought it was outstanding. After about a month of classes, I decided it was not a fit for me and stopped going.  I admire the women who continue to show up week after week, many of them for years.  Good for them, they are champions. 

But now, in the aftermath of viewing the Netflix documentary and the introspection it stirred, I have considered all the elements that go into living a vital, singing, twirling life.  I try to follow the principles of exercise, sleep, healthy food, and social involvement.  Yesterday I cleared a space in my guest room for exercise.  I downloaded a chair yoga app, where I can sit on a chair in the middle of the room and safely perform the routines without windmilling and breaking a toe. I’m cooking healthier and making better food choices except for salted caramel chocolates and red wine — these are non-negotiable. 

I met an elderly woman at the grocery store last week, probably in her 80s. We were standing in line at the self checkout. Her white hair was neatly combed and pulled back with a headband. She wore maroon lipstick and oversized sunglasses. She leaned on her shopping cart as she shuffled to the self check station. The entire time she unloaded her cart and scanned her groceries, she was humming. I asked her if I could help load her groceries back into the cart. “No sweetheart,” she said. “I can do for myself,” and she did. In the parking lot I saw her loading her groceries into the trunk of a car, where a younger person sat at the wheel. This 80-someting woman did not live in one of the five Blue Zones, but she had the same joyful spirit. She enjoyed maroon lipstick and oversized sunglasses, and liked to hum as she labored with the groceries. I caught my reflection in the window of my SUV as I swung the hatch open. I was grinning like I’d just played a winning scratcher. “I can do for myself,” I thought as I swung bags of groceries into the back.

The most valuable thing I took from the Blue Zones documentary, is the reminder that I have choices. Like Tippy who still risks leg lifts, the lady with maroon lipstick who does for herself, and the 101-year old woman in documentary who dances and twirls like a teenager: I must choose to walk a healthier path, rather than do what is easy and complain when a short walk wears me out. My own experience has taught me that my body is my best friend, and that the consequences of bad choices are weight gain, pain, and disappointment in myself, while good choices bring vitality, longevity, and confidence.  

Tonight I will set my alarm for 6:00 AM. I’ll get up and walk my dogs early, do some stretches and and try my chair yoga app. I’ll make a light breakfast and do some yardwork. I might even twirl a little. Anyway, that’s the plan.