Snap Crackle Pop

Workout is an important part of my routine. If I'm being lofty, I'll tell you that I do it for my health. Arthritis runs in my family. I am a prime (Mega prime) candidate for osteoporosis. My workout girls provide comraderie. I would not bother if it were not for them. There's peer support and the laughter helps. The workout is often pure frustration for me. My body won't get in that position. I hear "Snap, crackle pop" while I attempt to find it.

I have these little reflective moments when I try to do a particular exercise or stretch and my body won't go there. As a young girl, I was a dancer. (Ballet -- not Go Go or Pole dancing.) I used to sit on the ground and wrap my legs around my neck. My father would jokingly say, "You are going to be so popular on dates!" My mother would whack him.

As many people have commented, aging is not for wimps. When I'm tempted to complain about my creaks and aches, I remind myself of all the Belle endured. I think about the many pieces of metal in Hangdog's body. (It doesn't completely nullify my frustrations but it helps.)

I will continue to lift my weights and get my heart rate moving. I will attempt to contort my body into positions that it no longer welcomes. But, I will have one eye on the clock and at 7:30 A.M., I will be the first to announce, "I all done."

7:30 a.m.

The phone is supposed to ring at 7:30 a.m. It's supposed to be my friend, Patsy. We're supposed to be discussing our day and whatever bad outfit or bad hairdo is on the television.

Several years have passed since her unfair and untimely death. I still expect the phone call and then reality settles over me. Time is supposed to heal all wounds but to quote Dr. Phil, "Time heals nothing." Every once in a while, her husband calls at 7:30 a.m. When I answer the phone, he says, "It's still not Patsy."

I understand that we're all faced with the same fate. Time is precious and no one knows his or her own timeline. I don't understand why I had to lose this friend and other people seem to live forever. Willard Scott did his birthday gig on the Today Show recently and highlighted some woman who was celebrating her 102nd birthday. She quit smoking when she was 97-years old.

Patsy was a pipsqueak in stature and a giant in personality. She would rally her troops (girlfriends) and get us to do anything. She organized trips and sleepovers. She guilted us into a multitude of volunteer activities. She could rearrange the furniture in your house (and often did) while you took a bathroom break. She made me laugh, even in the most bizarre situations. Don't let anyone tell you that peer pressure ends in high school or college. She took peer pressure to a new level.

She was gifted at crafts; I am not. I cannot count the number of things I've painted because she told me to do so. Once we had a few drinks and cut another one of our girlfriend's hair. (Pats on one side -- me on the other.) She swears it was a great haircut.

The girlfriends were her pallbearers, an idea I plan to steal. Life moves on and somehow we pick ourselves up and carry on.

It's not logical but I still expect my morning phone call.