I met Laura Farrell a couple of years ago when I joined a gym for the first time in my life.  She was and is the gym manager and receptionist.

I’ve always disliked gyms and felt uncomfortable in them. School gyms were so frightening that I used to skip school and hide outside when I had a gym class. The gym teacher didn’t seem to care.

Big gyms don’t terrify me, but I don’t like being in them. I never have.

There is never anyone remotely like me around gyms, and I am now about 60 years older than most people there, who don’t exercise; they work out and have muscles in places where I don’t even have classes.

Laura Farrell and I hit it off right away; she runs a Saratoga WMCA Gym not far from me. It’s my gym.

We just clicked, and she seemed to get me and welcomed me and took some time to show me how to work all these bewildering machines. Laura had some minor reading issues, and as a trained literacy volunteer, I was able to help her with some books. She had no trouble after that.

She was able to help me with my exercises.

It was a comfortable gym, roomy, clean, and well-equipped. The pandemic made it tense; everyone wore masks and stayed away from each other.

I was doing well, but my work there was interrupted.

A year ago, I had trouble with my foot. I had to wear special boots for nearly a year and was advised to stay out of the gym because of my foot wound and the pandemic. The foot drama went on for eight or nine months before it was resolved with surgery.

But I lost interest in the gym, which I persuaded myself I never really liked anyway, no fault of Laura. I considered canceling the annual fee, but something stopped me.

It’s been over a year since I’ve been there, and I went in once a month ago and left quickly. Laura was on leave with her foot troubles.

Without her there, it felt even stranger.

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In recent months, partly because of my sudden inactivity – I couldn’t walk for those months either, and I can’t walk on the snow and ice battering us this winter – my legs began to hurt when I walked and when I didn’t.

Breaking a leg or a hip in a fall would not help things. I love writing and am very happy sitting in my study with some tea and Zinnia at my feet and working on my photos and blog and persuading myself there was no choice: I couldn’t exercise.

I know I should be exercising, especially if I’m not walking as much as I like, but I talked myself into thinking I’d get around to it later. This is not news to a person with diabetes with heart disease.

In the meantime, my legs seem to stiffen up and get more painful. I got the older man’s hobble.

Soon, later became now. I went to see my friend and very excellent chiropractor, Dr. Nancy Burns, who has an office in Bennington, Vt. She is a magician; I never leave there hurting.

I thought I was busy on other issues. But life has other ideas. I have a good relationship with most of my doctors, and I am now familiar with all the Medical Come-To-Jesus moments that seem to precede my accepting reality and making changes.

I know by now when my doctors or nurse practitioners get sick of my stubbornness and denial. They get grim, sit down and look me in the eyes. We have to talk, they say.

It happened years ago when a nurse practitioner chewed me out for thinking I had asthma and informed me that I had a heart attack. It happened six months ago when my nurse practitioner shared a Come-To-Jesus moment with me and said, as a diabetic and heart patient, I needed to lose weight and stop eating ice cream for dessert.

It happened a few months ago when a cardiologist sat down with me and told me quite sternly that I must radically alter my relationship with food if I wished to live and enjoy my good life. She said I must give up the eating habits of a lifetime and change my relationship to food.

It happened a year and a half ago when a urologist sat down and said I had sleep apnea and needed to address it; that was the reason I was up all night going to the bathroom. No, I said, not me. I’m not wearing a mask to bed.

It happened ten years ago when my therapist looked in the eye and told me I wasn’t married; my marriage, she said,  had ended years earlier. And it happened two days ago when I walked stiffly into Nancy Burns’s office, and after she examined me, she sat down and flashed the Come-To-Jesus look and said we have to talk.

Look, she said, your hamstrings are way too tight. You need to start doing some exercises at home, and you need to get on a treadmill or bike at home or the gym. I wouldn’t say I like gyms, I said, and that was the wrong thing to say.

Nancy is the gentlest of people, but I could see she was earnest about getting my attention.

You are healthy, your heart is good, she said, this doesn’t have to be a problem. You will almost instantly feel better if you start a moderate exercise program. I started doing muscle loosening exercises the following day and showed up at the gym this afternoon.

Nancy got to me. She said she knew I dismissed the pain in my legs to aging, but there is no reason; she said, why your legs need to hurt. They are just stiff from lack of movement.

I remembered that my foot  had sidelined me; Laura Farrell had recently messaged me and asked me where I was and when I was returning to the gym. I appreciate Laura; I feel safe around her. She is always available to help, and she loves her job.

She has offered to help me get back into an exercise habit (in the same way I am developing new food habits), and I would feel better immediately. She was worried about me too. Have you been talking to my wife? I asked, and she laughed. “Poor girl,” she said.

It was time to establish a new relationship with my gym.

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I felt strange when I walked into the gym, about 15 miles from the farm. But when I saw the smile on Laura’s face, I felt fine. I am different from the others there, but they don’t care. It’s not middle school. The young see right through older adults, and no one else paid attention to me. Odd, but I felt I belonged there.

It has been suggested that if I had time to drive Moise all over the Capital region looking for building supplies, I should also have time to go to the gym every other day.

Laura shouted a shocked and enthusiastic roar of welcome from her base at the reception desk.

We almost threw our arms around each another, but I remembered that is no longer the appropriate way to greet a woman and assume it is what she would want. I don’t need to wear a mask in the gym now, but I wipe down the machine I’m using with disinfectant wipes before and after using it.

Once I get settled, I’ll bring my Beats earpieces and listen to music, as I did before.

Laura was pleased to see me, which I appreciated. “What the hell happened to you? she asked. “Where have you been?”

She clapped, and we held hands for a moment. I was glad to see her, and she made me feel so welcome. I gave her a brief accounting of my year.

She said she was amazed to hear that I wouldn’t say I liked gyms; I had shown no sign of it. I think for Laura, the very idea is nearly incomprehensible. She said this the gym was a  good and safe place for me, and she took me over to a treadmill machine and helped me set it for 15-20 minutes at the slowest speed.

“Just 15 minutes,” she said, “no more today.” She clipped the safety clamp to my suspenders and watched for a minute or so.

It felt good to be there.

It felt good to be expanding my ability to take good care of myself and live for a good while longer.

I had no trouble on the treadmill; I went for 20 minutes and ended up going eight settings higher than she had first suggested. It was no strain. I liked the rhythm of it, and I liked the way my legs moved so quickly.

Laura and I worked out a regular schedule – every other day. The gym has my attention, and I will be faithful to my work there. I get it. No more badgering is necessary. She said there would be a big storm on Friday, so perhaps I could come on Thursday before it started snowing. I’ll be there.

Nancy’s message broke through, and Maria has said the same thing for months. She was pleased when I told her I was going back to the gym.

It feels good to feel good. I love the food we are eating now. My body has changed for the better, and noticeably. My heart is strong and healthy. Sugar has gone from my life. My blood sugar numbers are just about down to normal. With my sleep apnea mask, I am sleeping more each night than I have ever slept in one night my whole life.

As I left the gym, I called Nancy. “I want you to know that I’ve been doing those leg exercises for five minutes a day, as you suggested, and I’m leaving the gym where I did 20 minutes on the treadmill and didn’t work up a sweat. Thanks for snapping me out of it.”

She was pleased to hear the news. Nancy cares about her patients. She is a friend.

Amish Moise’s son John rolled into the backyard on his buggy when I got home. A relative of his wife had died, and he wondered if I could purchase a round-trip train ticket. The Amish can’t use machines powered by electricity.

The funeral site wasn’t far away. I battled my way through the Amtrak site and printed out his tickets.

I like John, he is courteous and direct.

As we left, he turned to e smiling and said. “I don’t guess you don’t want to drive me to the train station today?

I smiled back and answered: “Sorry John, I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m tired. I just got back from the gym. I won’t be available for driving anymore.”