This morning I dragged my reluctant body through a 30-minute stretch routine. Struggling to harness my attention span, I would catch myself staring listlessly off into the distance as the drone of fitness instruction guided me through a series of body positions.

In this stage of fitness repentance, stretching is full of awkward reminders that my late-forties body doesn’t move like it did a couple decades ago.

Tightness in my chest muscles from years of sitting over a computer keyboard with less than stellar posture makes the meeting of my palms behind my back impossible. I grasp into the air behind me and eventually settle for hand-over-hand folding somewhere at the base of my spine instead.

Same goes for a standing twist stretch that results in a token turn of my head or the forward fold where my fingers fall a good 12 inches short of my toes. Darned years of office chair existence. My hammies aren’t cutting me any slack.

When it’s over I feel a mix of relief and elation wash over me. Score one for healthier lifestyle and I actually do feel better than I did 30 minutes before. I’m just glad I didn’t have any spectators other than my two doggies. Instead of a graceful workout it was more like a one-person wrestle match.

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