My primary extracurricular activity as a child was dance. I took classes as a four and five-year-old at a tiny neighborhood studio called Sharon’s School of Dance. I was the breakout star in the number “Teddy Bear Parade,” if you ask my mother. At six, I got serious about dance, and my mother drove roundtrip downtown Minneapolis from the suburbs five days a week so I could pursue my passion. I spent the majority of 1977-1988 at the Minnesota Dance Theater, the premiere school in the state, which still flourishes today.
It was love. The training, the performing, the friends. Oh, the friends. I’m certain I made many teachers crazy with my gift for gab with my classmates. I regret nothing. I spent more hours with my dance friends than I ever did with my school friends. We performed at The Ordway and Northrup Auditorium, we met Prince and Baryshnikov in the studios at MDT, we had world-renown guest artists, and we took French language classes and Flamenco dancing. The dance theater was a complete world unto its own. Some of my most precious friendships were forged there, and those bonds are permanent. I learned discipline. I learned how to develop a rich inner life during hours at the ballet barre. I learned how to face challenges and disappointments as I either got or was denied various roles. I learned I really hate wearing tights.
But during the entire time of driving back and forth and dancing and missing things at school and coping with bleeding feet and having no toenails for most of the mid-80s (not a popular look in high school) I had been completely unaware of one central fact. I was exercising. Nobody told me. The fact I had exercised at high intensity my entire life didn’t occur to me until I stopped.
Then, one day, I turned twenty-nine. I was pregnant with my first child and was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Avoid that if you can. And apparently, the medical community thinks it’s important to exercise. On purpose. Regularly. This was very irritating news to learn. But I did it because my child’s needs come before mine and because I’m a rule follower.
By my third pregnancy I dragged myself to the health club even in the fortieth week. I did not have gestational diabetes that time, and I feel in my bones it is because of the exercise. So I went and kept going. People gave me adorable nods of approval as I lumbered up the stairs to heave myself onto the elliptical machine. I imagine they thought I was a fitness lover. But they were wrong.
I was thirty-seven and filled with weight and rage, and I did what I felt I had to do. Here is where lifelong discipline pays off. I did it, but I didn’t like it.
I am just not an exercise enthusiast. This isn’t a popular thing to say in a room full of people training for a marathon. I often find myself in situations where I’m in a room with people who are training for an insane run, bike race, cross-country ski event, or swim. If you want to compete, don’t challenge me. Actually, please don’t even invite me. I’m happy to sleep in and cheer you on and meet up after for a Reuben. But I finally understand the long game of movement. To feel strong. To maintain mobility. To stave off pain. To live well. So, I have found a formula that works for me, and I’m grateful for dance.
I do Pilates on a reformer once a week with an amazing friend/trainer. I do yoga at my local studio with another lovely friend/instructor. I meet one of my former co-workers nearly every weekend for hot yoga followed by hot coffee. I take long walks with friends and my dog. I go cheerfully, and I’m stronger than ever.
I am training for nothing. I want to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible. I realize I keep showing up mainly to socialize. Like I did when I was seven. And I get in trouble only slightly less now for talking in class.
Let’s not call it exercise. Let’s call it wellness with friends, and I’m in.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.