On not measuring up

This is what 41 can look like.
Read the NYT Magazine profile about Dara Torres.

Torres is now 41 and the mother of a 2-year-old daughter, Tessa Grace. She broke her first of three world records in 1982, at 14, and she has retired from swimming and come back three times
...[snip]...
Torres’s retinue includes a head coach, a sprint coach, a strength coach, two stretchers, two masseuses, a chiropractor and a nanny, at the cost of at least $100,000 per year.

This really taps into my insecurities. I, too, am 41 and the mother of one. At 14, I was not breaking world records. I was just happy not to be cut from my high school volleyball team. I was disciplined about conditioning, diet, weight-training, stretching, practice--I spent 20-30 hours a week training.

Despite my devotion, I was never more than mediocre for a competitive athlete. Moreover, there were pesky recurring infections and sports injuries. (The reason became clear years later with the gene test that explained everything.)

I joined a gym a month ago. Gyms had always been places of refuge for me, but this time was different. I haven't exercised regularly for more than 8 years. The years have not been kind to my body. I felt downright flabby while changing in the locker room.

It's a gorgeous gym and the denizens are friendly enough. I have swam there a half dozen times and lifted weights twice. Amazingly, each time I go to this pool, I get a lane to myself. Hopefully, my flabbiness will decline and I will become one of the buff chicks at the gym. Mark also joined and we signed Iris up for unlimited time at the Kids' Club.

The day after the NYT ran the profile about Dara Torres, the LAT ran a piece by Linda Alcorace.

When you're lying in bed and can't keep food down, muscle metabolizes first.

Dr. Zhaoping Li, my UCLA clinical nutritionist, says the rate is two to three pounds of muscle wasted for every pound of fat. Bug-eyed and big-bellied with fluid after four months' hospitalization for liver failure, I had legs and arms like matchsticks. I could walk no farther than one block. Me, the lifelong athlete, former aerobics instructor and dancer -- now wait-listed for a transplant.

My diagnosis seemed unbelievable: An ultra-rare disease, Budd-Chiari Syndrome.

Two years later, not yet dead, not yet given a liver transplant, I'm told by Li that I must increase my muscle mass. If I am hospitalized again, I'll lose even more muscle and might not survive.

And so I find myself one foggy Tuesday morning at a low-impact aerobics class. The instructor is world-renowned, a fitness leader. A volley of words echoes around the studio: "Oh, isn't her body amazing?" and "Look at how toned she is." I squish down memories of days when I looked that toned.

That knocked me out of my self-pity.

Aside:
My rheumatologist wants me to lose weight to minimize wear and tear on my joints. My internist is opposed; the thinner I am, the higher the risk of osteoporosis. I may also not have enough reserves to survive the frequent infections. (I have had a few close calls already.)

I asked my immunologist as a tie-breaker. She looked warily and said, "Don't you have enough to worry about without developing an eating disorder?" She added, "You've given up so much, I don't want you go have to give up food, too."

I won't be going to the gym or San Diego this weekend. I caught the cold that Iris is getting over. I will send Mark and Iris to the gym as my proxy. Perhaps Mark will look like the guy in the pool photo.