Exercise Buddies by Barbara Quinn

I go to the gym three or four times a week and let me tell you, it’s a struggle to get my butt there. I’m much happier reading a book, or writing, or sitting outside and soaking up the sun. But the exercise is good for me, and I do feel better when I complete a workout.

I feel better not only because of the exercise, but because of the lovely group of women in the cardio-strength class I attend twice a week. I’m grateful that I have time with these ladies and I look forward to our time together. They are all ages, from mid-thirties to early seventies. Each one brings a dash of uniqueness to the constant conversations which help us pass the time. We talk while we sweat through our step and aerobics. We talk while we do our weights. We chat before and sometimes we go for coffee after. And so I’ve come to know all about their children, and grandchildren, their parents and grandparents. One woman came back this week after a bout of strep and mono. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Another’s daughter has decided where to attend college at Tulane where my son went, and we discussed that. The teacher’s daughter sliced her foot on a hot tub and advice was given. We talk politics, and religion. We share recipes and recommend books, movies, restaurants. And most importantly, we laugh.

There are different levels of friendships in life. All of them are valuable and keep us connected. I owe much to those people who allow me into their lives and who are there in times of need. The friends you share the good news with are as important as the ones you share the bad news with. And the friends you exercise with, well, they too are truly special!

Pool Ladies, by Kat Magendie

Recently, I bought a pass to the gym to get that extra resistance training I’d been craving. During my warm-up, I walk a treadmill that faces the pool. It is there that I watch them—the Pool Ladies. They all look to be in their sixties, seventies, and eighties. Without self-consciousness, they promenade the length of the pool, heads held high, their multi-colored bathing suits modest, but still exposing all the flesh that bathing suits will expose. Then, one by one, they enter the pool, down the concrete steps, wade through the water in a ragged single file, and begin their water aerobics.

They are as graceful as dancers in their purpose. I imagine aches and pains and stiffness are forgotten as the water cradles them, holds them buoyant. Their lower bodies waver in the water, strong legs that have carried them through their years; and their upper bodies sway, chests that hold hearts that loved or broke, arms that carried babies or burdens, hands that stroked fevered brows or clapped with happiness or held palms together for wishes they never knew would come true, and perhaps some never did.

I watch them with envy. I want to project myself down in the water with them. I want to be a part of the Pool Ladies. Then I do imagine myself with them. I am wearing a bright red bathing suit, one I found at JC Penny’s on sale for twenty-nine ninety-nine. We are chatting and laughing and telling our stories. But, once we are down those stairs, once our dance begins, there is silence, only the sound of water gently lapping against our bodies disturbs the solemnity of the moment.

Finally, the Pool Ladies exit the water, chatting again like birds on a fence. Their faces are animated, full of high color. One by one, they disappear from my view. I miss them. I slow the treadmill and step off, make my way to the weight room. I hope to see one of the Pool Ladies, but, if I did, what would I say? They know all the secrets I am to find out, and those secrets are not mine to have, not yet. Then I know—“Thank you for reminding me what I have to look forward to.” That’s what I’d say to the Pool Ladies.