This is an interesting article, about
some research into mortality rates and the ability to stand up
easily:
I haven't had a chance to look at the
research itself, but the simplicity of this test appeals to me, as
compared to the tests that are more favored by medical people.
Controlling your blood lipids or your blood pressure or your heart
rate is tricky, a bit difficult for the layman to measure properly,
and generally discouraging. But trying to keep, or regain, your
ability to get up off the floor without using your hands, elbows, or
knees? That's pretty straightforward and cuts a lot of crap.
I don't link to this because I'm
perfect myself at it! I'd score eight out ten on their test: I can
rise confidently from sitting on the floor without using my hands or
elbows, but I can't even imagine doing it without one knee. Not
without losing fifty pounds, anyway. I don't know what I weigh (I
haven't weighed myself in years), but I imagine it's 220 pounds. or
so. I can't figure out how to get my center of gravity up that first
foot or so without rocking up onto a knee. But I can do that, fluidly
and easily, and from there, it's a piece of cake.
Now it is. In my forties, I couldn't
have done it without at least one hand, and probably two knees. I'm
much stronger now than I was then, more flexible, and my balance is
better. I intend to keep all these capacities as long as I can, and
never to relinquish the firm friendship I now have with the floor. I
take to the floor almost any time I have a chance, without looking
too odd. I really do not want to become one of those people who
totters along in perpetual vertical, perching on high chairs, unable
to get up and down. I love the ground, to go easily into a deep
squat, to roll readily and smoothly onto my stomach or my back. And I
don't do weights or training or formal yoga or anything; the closest
thing I do to what modern people call “exercise” is ride my
bicycle into my breakfast place, or into work, a few times a week.
But I do what kids do: I try stuff. I
challenge myself all the time, silly challenges. Can I crawl over the
couch without using my arms? Can I hop up the short steps to the
basement on one foot? When I'm riding the train, and hanging onto
those rails I hang my bike from – and which are so enchantingly
like monkey bars – can I haul myself up, surreptitiously, so that
my feet are dangling, without anyone noticing? When you weigh as much
as I do, this is no mean feat.
The thing about all my silly challenges
is, that they actually have to do with moving myself around, in ways
that I might actually need to do, sometime. If you like lifting
weights and doing stuff with machines, that's great, but the real
point of exercise is being able to move yourself, even if you're
injured or stuck or thrown into some terribly awkward position. And
if you're willing to be silly, your own body has all the weight and
resistance you could ever want, even if you're not as hefty as I am.
The other day a client told me, “I'm
so grateful for your advice last time.” I couldn't remember what
I'd said, so she filled me in: “you said, 'find some way to move
during the day that makes you happy.' That's just been so important
to me.”
This body. It's such a marvelous thing,
and the more battered and time-worn the more wonderful, really. You
can always try things. You don't need to be an athlete, or a yogi, or
a gym rat. You can just crawl happily around the house, dance on any
limbs that still work, see if you can step on every third flower on
the carpet. Scuttle like a crab. Roll over in bed without using your
arms. Whatever. What I don't like about the American Way of Exercise
is its damned grimness, repetitiveness, and solemnity, and its
emphasis on trying to make your body and yourself be like some ideal.
Forget that. Get on the floor with the kids and just horse around.
Put on some music and dance. Move happily. Treat your body like the
wonderful, unexpected, and delightful gift that it is.