by Melissa Brown

Created on: November 17, 2008   Last Updated: June 29, 2009

A woman approaching 60 needs to keep toned and in shape if she wants continued good health. I also knew that if I wanted to keep my mental facilities as I grow older, I'd better do something. So, about a year ago I started going to the YMCA to work out. I would have preferred a friend to accompany me for encouragement and company, but for some reason I could not persuade any of my friends to join me in this adventure. As it turned out, I actually enjoyed doing this by my self three days a week for several months. With the aerobics first, followed by using the exercise equipment, I felt much better, and actually had a good time doing it.

However, after about six months, I started slacking off, and I think that I was actually seeking an excuse to not go. Whether it was boredom or the lack of an exercise buddy, I didn't really have the enthusiasm that had been mine in the beginning of this quest. An excuse finally presented itself. My annual mammogram came back messy; messy meaning just that. There was garbage in the right breast that wasn't an immediate threat to me, but it just wasn't supposed to be there. According to the doctor, it had to come out. I had the out-patient surgery, or day surgery, and returned home to recover.

This was the beginning of my procrastination. I didn't go back to the gym for a year. What gold-bricking! I had used the surgery as an excuse not to go work out. I squeezed that excuse for an entire year until my annual mammogram rolled around again. Once more, there was more trash, but in both sides this time. Again, this was not a threat to me, but needed to be cleaned out. There was more surgery, and more guilt piling up on me for not going back to the gym. My recovery went fine, and I was released by my doctor to do whatever I wanted to do.

There were no more excuses. In the back of my mind, a voice kept saying, "You have no muscle tone, and the scales ARE correct!" My thighs were looking more like curds and whey. The painful awareness that I could no longer squeeze into my favorite jeans just haunted me. I could not make myself toss them into the bag by the front door designated for the next charity that called for a clothing donation. Actually, there were many items of clothing in my closet that I could not bring myself to donate. After all, I might be able to wear them again. Right?

Though the YMCA that I had gone to previously was conveniently close by, small and had everything that I needed; there was still something lacking. The small

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