For the last five years of my surgical career in Billings I endured two or three sessions a week of “hot yoga.” Seriously hot, 104 degrees with added humidity. I had been experiencing the common occupational hazards of surgery--neck, back, and shoulder pain resulting from twisting, bending, and generally contorting the skeleton into improbable positions to see into the nether regions of the human body.
With regular, seemingly tortuous yoga sessions I had none of the aforementioned somatic complaints. A friend of mine suggested that I went because I was often the only male in a room of extremely fit young women in diaphanous sportswear. Being the sober Puritan that I am, I had not noticed.
There is a perception that yoga involves sitting, chanting, and gazing upon one’s navel. This is not the case. One of the young women in my class brought her boyfriend, who lamented before the session in the men’s locker that he would require another workout later, as “my workouts are pretty gnarly, not this girl stuff.” I suggested he keep an open mind.
Within 10 minutes he was on his back, gasping for air, looking like a hooked tuna in a charter boat. His girlfriend appeared to be in a process of reassessment.
In the locker room afterward, he admitted “that was like, brutal, man.”
He then regarded me and added “but for an old guy, you were kicking it.” I was deeply touched.
I was pleased, then, to discover that Condon MT, despite having no stoplights, has a yoga class. It is not hot yoga, and unless Dennis builds a fire in the wood stove, it would be frigid yoga. It is held Tuesdays in the Condon Community Hall, the hand-hewn log epicenter of the greater metropolis. Jill Wiseman is our facilitator, as I will call her, because I couldn’t figure out if “yogi” was the right term. We follow videos in which this super cut, uber cool guy with a ponytail calmly exhorts us to mindfully place our right big toe into our left ear.
Our group is a few decades older than the Billings one, more likely in fleece than Lycra, but seemingly just as agile. If this were the African Savannah, I would be a water buffalo among gazelles. There is a good deal of catching up to do.
In 2025 there will be 120,000 people in the US over 100 years of age, and accordingly there will be a bazillion in their 80s and 90s. There are many reasons for this-vaccines, less smoking, antibiotics, better cancer detection, better workplace health, and medications like statins that reduce cardiovascular mortality.
There will be a massive cohort of geezers, who, in order not to be pathetic and annoying to the few young people around (birth rates are declining because kids are too expensive, and most importantly, they cramp your style), must remain independent and mobile.
Mobility, agility, and flexibility disappear quickly without maintenance. Muscle strength reduces stress on joints, which reduces pain. Opportunities for activity require a yes rather than a no. If you are over 80 and fall and break a hip, you have a 50% chance of being dead in a year. Don’t fall. There won’t be enough nursing homes or caregivers for all these gray lemmings headed toward 100. There certainly won’t be the workforce to feed us applesauce or change our Depends.
This morning I was greasing my skid steer, shooting lubricant into the myriad of joints in that machine, and thinking how nice it would be to do that to my knees and shoulders and wrists whenever they barked.
In a way, we can. Walking, biking, pickleball, yoga, whatever. As the Great Philosopher said: (I am completely making this up, consistent with current academic and political culture)
“Be your own grease gun.”
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