Goodbye, Jack

I’m really sorry that Jack LaLanne died.  I guess I knew all along that he would, but I thought he’d live to see his hundreds.  I’ve always felt a special bond with Jack.  Jack is the one who got me started on exercise, way back in my twenties, when I was a young Mom and trying to get back into shape after my daughters were born.  I had been a failure at gym class in school, I didn’t like softball or dodge ball or tumbling.  My Mom and Dad didn’t do anything other than the normal strenuous activities of raising kids and maintaining a house and yard, so I didn’t know a thing about calisthenics.  Jack taught me.

He ran onto his tiny set, with his two big, white dogs, with so much enthusiasm a viewer couldn’t help but be inspired to move with him.  He didn’t have any fancy weights or pulleys or machines or music or pretty girls behind him—all he had was a jumpsuit, his muscles and his enthusiasm.  He told us to pull out a straight back chair, hang on to it and do leg extensions.  He asked us to get a towel to do overhead stretches.  He modeled getting down on the floor to do sit-ups.   He even had us get vegetable cans out of the cupboard to use as weights for bicep curls.  He didn’t let you have an excuse for not exercising with him because the equipment he wanted you to use was right there in your house.   Not only was it easy to do the exercises, Jack’s vigor was inspiring.

I exercised with Jack for years until Jane Fonda came along with her record—yes, I said record.  We didn’t have videos yet, and so I’d put on Jane’s record, and with her telling me to “feel the burn”, I got on the floor, arched my back and did my buttocks tucks to the music of the Eagles.  I still can’t hear, “There’s gonna be a heartache tonight, a heartache tonight I know” without the urge to get down on the floor and flex my butt muscles!  I jogged in place with Jane for years, finally with her video, until I discovered the 20-Minute Workout, which came on television regularly at 6:30 every morning.  I’d put on my royal blue leotard and sweat with four perky girls for the 20 minutes they promised.  Then I’d get my kids off to school.

Over the years I’ve done aerobics in classes, dance aerobics, yoga classes, Thai Chi, exercised along with buff air force guys on the military channel, did some running while I worked in Kingston, bicycled, belonged to a couple of gyms, worked out in my own home with weights and an exercycle. I even ran around the inside of a house we lived in for a year where each room opened to the next. I broke my little toe doing that, but I haven’t stopped exercising since the early sixties and it’s all because of Jack LaLane.  Thanks, Jack.  If there’s a heaven, I know it won’t be long before you’ll have everybody in shape.

Telephone

Brrrrrringggggg!!!!!  BRRRRRINGGGGG!!!!!!! I jump at the first ring.  I cringe at the second one. I pretend not to hear it.  If I was alone in the house I might let it go to voice mail but my husband can’t stand an unanswered phone, so reluctantly I answer it.

What has happened to make me react so negatively to a ringing phone?  Years ago,  a phone ringing used to be a welcome interruption no matter when it came.  It rang two longs and a short to signal it was for us and not somebody else on the party line. When I was a kid the ringing black phone on the table could mean that my parents were being invited to an evening of cards at the Potter’s, my parents best friends.  The Potters had kids our age and so it was a treat to go there.  We’d be put to bed late, in the Potter’s bed, my brother and I tormenting each other for an hour until we finally dropped off.  Later we’d be carried to the car and then carried to bed when we got home.  The drowsy memories are sweet.

As a teenager the phone became a fabulous instrument.  The ringing telephone could mean a date, or a sleepover with friends, a flirty conversation or gossip.  I was thrilled with anticipation when the phone rang and sorely disappointed when it was not for me.  We only had one phone so I had time limits but my parents weren’t overly strict about enforcing them.  I’d talk for hours if I could.

When I was a young mother, isolated at home, no license to drive yet and my husband at work all day, the olive green Princess phone, hanging on the wall in the kitchen, was a lifeline.  I could call friends with their own small children to ask what to do about a fever or a diaper rash or how to handle a husband who didn’t have time to teach me to drive.   I could arrange a shopping date with my girlfriend or call a taxi to get to the doctor if my daughter fell on the sidewalk and put a gash in her forehead.  I could call a friend to talk to another adult for a while.

Eventually I went to work in an office and the telephone changed to one with multiple lines.  “Call for Christine on line 4” would sound through the building and I would have to field questions, go over schedules, plan meetings.  When I got home after being on calls all day I didn’t want to talk on the phone, but the calls that came were innocuous except for the increasing number of telemarketers who had our number.  I became adept at saying, “I’m not interested” without feeling guilty.  A new job in education resulted in a different relationship with my new multiline phone, which also had an answering machine.  I would come into work each morning with 12 to 25 messages on my phone each day.  I had to listen to them all first thing in the morning and answer each one while taking live calls and tending to customers who came through the door.  It was then that the telephone became a noisy little monster with numbers on it.

The people on the other end of this phone were not always friendly.  They had to complete forms that they didn’t like and didn’t understand and I was the person making them do it.  There were deadlines involved, teaching jobs on the line.  I was the enemy to a lot of them and they treated me that way, accusing and angry.   After I left that phone in the evening I didn’t want to see another one until I came into work the next day.

After I retired I thought that my feelings about phones might mellow.  The “no call” list had cut the unwanted telemarketing calls, even though there were still calls from the fire department and local law enforcement asking for money to send a needy child to the rodeo or the circus.  A long chat with my daughter-in-law or a friend was a bright spot in the day, though emails had taken over most communication.  Our phones were multiple and portable allowing me to roam the house or even go out into my garden when talking to someone rather than be stuck on the couch or the kitchen stool.  Our cell phones were used for emergencies rather than daily calling so we weren’t as accessible as some. 

What has kept my feelings about the telephone from being happy and content is my elderly mother.  My father died in 2001 and since that time I have gradually taken more of a caretaking role.  At first it was her finances, then legal issues, then home maintenance problems and now it is her health.  Now when the phone rings it is less likely to be a friend calling with a tempting invitation and more likely to be a call from my brother saying something like, “Chris, Mom feels weird”, a call which ended up with our spending 5 hours in the emergency room.  It would be easier if my brother had the capacity to assess a situation and decide whether it was serious or benign but he is not capable of that, so I have become The Decider in matters concerning Mom’s health.

Phone calls now make me jump, think immediately about difficulties, emergencies, life and death situations.  I send up a silent prayer.  The intake of air, holding my breath, getting ready, can only be released when I hear on the other end of the line, “Is this Christine Dosa?  May I take a few minutes of your time to answer some survey questions?”  Who would have thought that I’d rather receive a call from a stranger than someone I know?  My heart stops pounding and I calm down and answer, “I’m sorry, I’m not interested” and hang up.