A few weeks ago, I watched a Netflix documentary about people who live in the “blue zones,” 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, 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 to press my own weight, I just want to be able to pick up a stray potato chip off the floor without wrenching my back.  A couple of years ago, I stepped on a piece of fencing in the dark and slid across my patio.  When the fencing came out from under me, I went airborne and landed hard on my left side, causing a hairline fracture to my hip and sacrum.  The doctor told me I was fortunate; that I have “young bones,” and would not need surgery. For about a year after that accident, I really took care of myself.  I went for early morning walks, ate mostly healthy foods, went to the gym now and then, and joined a yoga class.  I was so relieved to be okay, I felt I owed it to my body to not take wellness for granted.  Living with healthier habits made me feel lighter, less creaky, and more energized; I was awash with joie de vivre for a while.  And then it went away.  I cannot tell you why.

I have a lifetime gym membership.  I can’t remember the last time I went.  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. It stirred up other people’s guts, too, and apparently it is acceptable to let ‘er rip in class, which I found shocking and hilarious at the same time. 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. 

Most recently, my sister, Connie and 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 Connie and 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.  The group follows the instructor as best they can, customizing the movements to their fitness level.  A few times, the woman who always stood in front of me looked as if she were going to tip over during leg lifts.  Each time, I moved to catch her, but she recovered.  I found out later her name is Tippy.  I think that’s outstanding.  After about a month, Connie and I decided this was not the fitness class for us 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.  Some of them could probably take me on.

On my way to buy ice cream one day instead of going for a walk, I saw a bumper sticker on a car that read, “Live like you’re dying.”   Really?  If I thought I was in my last days, I would eat whatever I like, never give a thought to my health or waistline, spend money like a fool, and never, ever wash another dish.  What would this do for me except make me fat, broke, and grubby?  I don’t like bumper stickers, but I might post one that advises, “Live better and cut the crap.”

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.  I started by clearing 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.  I don’t think I can windmill into anything from a chair.  I’m cooking healthier and making better food choices except for salted caramel chocolates and red wine — these are non-negotiable.  I try to get enough sleep, but I am at the mercy of occasional insomnia.  I joined a book club and volunteer at a local food pantry, which gives me the opportunity to meet all sorts of people.

An elderly woman came into the food pantry last week. She was slightly stooped and walked with a cane. Her white hair was neatly combed and pulled back with a headband. She wore maroon lipstick and oversized sunglasses. She pulled a black canvas shopping cart behind her, singing and humming the entire time she shopped, filling her bag with produce. I helped her load her groceries and asked if I could help her to the car. “No sweetheart,” she said. “I can do for myself.” I was astonished that she was able to pull the loaded cart to the car, where a younger woman sat in the driver’s seat.

The most valuable thing I took from the documentary is the reminder that I have choices.  The consequences of my 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 will, “do for myself.” Anyway, that’s the plan.