Simple Lifting Exercises for Older People.

Louis Shalako

Boy, it sucks getting older, eh.

Or maybe it’s not so bad—at least, at long last, we seem to have our shit together. It’s got something to do with that attitude.

It happens in a number of ways.

I had to get over my shyness, (or maybe I just wanted to) and one way of doing that was to exercise on the beach. I have all kinds of thoughts on the subject.

If people want to laugh, that’s fine with me.

I am also a bit of a comic character, so there.

I’ve done a couple of short sets of very simple upper-body exercises today. It’s important not to hurt myself, as I have to go to work tomorrow. Quite frankly, I need the money. I can’t afford to quit, let alone be injured.

At the beach this morning, I used a big rock which probably weighs six to eight pounds. I was glad to see that no one had stolen it in the night.

It’s got a good shape so that I can keep a proper grip on it. I wouldn’t want to drop that on my foot or on my phone, both of which would be painful I am sure.

The first exercise is simple curls, which can be done one-armed with different sized dumbbells. Or a rock. I did ten or twelve of those. This is for the biceps. I’m standing for all of these exercises. Then I do lifts straight up, an overall shoulder exercise, another ten or twelve.

Then I do lifts up and outwards from each shoulder, on roughly a forty-five degree angle.

I’ll do five or six of each, and at this point, my hands are definitely a bit shaky. If a beautiful woman walks past, I am resolved to smile and nod and to say hi.

Then I do another kind of simple lift. This involves holding the rock down by the hip.

Now simply straight-arm the rock up to the horizon in front of the face. Hold it for three seconds, and then lower it down again. You want to maintain control of the rock. I do about three to five of those. Then there is a similar lift where I’m holding it by my hip and lifting it straight out sideways from the shoulder. You can feel it pulling on your shoulder muscles, that is for sure. Bring the rock up to the horizon, hold it for three seconds, and then lower it carefully down again. By this time, about three of these are more than enough when first starting out. You can always pick a different rock if it is too heavy or too light. The last exercise is to hold the rock down by the hip and then curl it up, stroking it up in close alongside of my body. It’s an underarm lift.

Later, back home in my living room, I took the ten-pound dumbbell and at full arm extension, laid it on the carpet above my head. I’m lying flat on my back. From there, I straight-arm it up so it’s above my chest and my head. Straight up, and then carefully lower it down to a few inches above the carpet. After three of those, maybe four, I switched arms. I switch hands with the weight off to one side. If I drop it, it’s not going to hit me. The next exercise is similar. Only in this case, the lift is from an arm extended out to the side from the shoulder. 

This is another straight-arm lift, and I bring the dumbbell up above the centre of my chest, or above my chin, that sort of thing. This leads to the last of the very simple exercises I have been doing. This is a simple dumbbell-press, straight up and down again to the shoulder. I alternate arms after ten or twelve repetitions. If you have a bar, you would be using both arms. I recommend very small loads for older people just starting out. What you want is more repetitions in that case.

You want to establish the habit, and that means not hurting yourself or trying to change the world in a day or two.

Right?

Here’s the thing. When you get older, you might sleep on your side and then you wake up in the morning with pain in between the shoulders. You have a really good sleep and then wake up with a crick in the neck. This is due to lack of muscle tone, where the simple weight of your body is putting stress and compression on muscles and joints that aren’t able to properly withstand it.

Note, none of these exercises will do much for that little pot-belly, but simply standing to do them probably does strengthen the core-body group of muscles—which was why I was at the beach in the first place. I stand navel-deep in the cool lake water and soak the pain out of my hips and lower back, the knees. After a while, I lean over and soak my elbows and wrists. I walk around a bit. Try and stand up, resist the force of the light waves. Stand up on the land, raise the chin and try to get a bit of a curve into that lower back…it’s funny how often you hear a little click in the stiff or sore area, as something drops back into its proper place. 

Walking on sand is an exercise in itself.

Being barefoot in the sun and the sand has its Zen-like qualities. It is sensual. It helps to get in touch with your own body.

It is a minor workout in its own right. Quite frankly, it seems to do a lot for me, and no doubt some of that is pure Zen, i.e. a kind of personal applied psychology. It’s all about the quality of your life.

For that reason, a light and simple routine might be of great benefit to anyone who is interested. As for my own goals, I’ve never really had pectorals in my entire life. Not much, anyways. At the age of 58 years old, it would be interesting to see if I could actually give myself some.

Otherwise I’m going to be stuck forever with this saggy little pair of man-tits.

END

Image Credit. By Raquel Baranow - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=43853612



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The Pest.

Louis Shalako

The other day, my neighbour asked me if I was going to the smoke shack the next day. I said yes, and she gave me money for five packs of smokes. She said she was going out, but might stop by later. I told her I go to bed at ten-thirty or eleven, and don’t much like company showing up after nine p.m. The fact was, she was out late, until one-thirty a.m. or so. I do appreciate the fact that she didn’t come knocking at one-thirty in the morning.

No, she was at my door at 6:34 a.m. She was out of cigarettes. She knocked four or five times—she must have hung around out there for a good ten minutes or so. Yes, I was awake. 

No, I didn’t get out of bed and run to answer the door.

She came around later and got her smokes. She told me that I must be angry, and I just laughed. Not really. Not yet.

So then she whips out a few twenties. She’s volunteered my services to pick up three cartons for a friend or a neighbour. I have no idea who the fuck that is.

“Are you going to the smoke shack tomorrow?”

“Ah, yeah, I suppose I am.” So now I’m running errands for perfect strangers.

Supposedly, there’s five bucks in it for me—if only they had remembered that the price of smokes went up and their order is $63.00 plus the five for me. She had three twenties.

She agreed that she needed to talk to her friend and get some more money. I told her that I would call her the next morning, before going out. I wrote ‘smokes’ on the back of my left hand so that I would remember—and I did remember.

How in the fuck could I ever forget, eh?

Unfortunately, she was knocking at my door at about 8:30 a.m. It was a Sunday and I kind of had my heart set on sleeping in. My neighbour-guys work construction or something. One of them is a roofer, and I know that because I see him getting in the truck in the morning. 

Generally speaking, things are pretty quiet Sunday morning. Unless some rather persistent person is at the door, tap-tap-tapping away.

The liquor store opens at eleven, and I see no need to make multiple trips when I can do everything I need to do on one run.

I did not answer the door. By about ten-thirty, I had showered. I was dressed. I’d had a cup of tea. I called down and told her I was coming.

She gave me the money, I went and got the smokes.

I brought them back, knocked on her door, and handed them in, along with the change, minus my five bucks.

“Can I come up?” she asked.

“No,” I said, and turned and walked away.

Let’s see if she can take a hint…the funny thing is, I actually got some writing done that day. 

Hurting her feelings is not my favourite thing, but…but.

It was about three p.m. and I was having a nap.

Sure enough, someone’s knocking at the door. I stayed in bed—because I know exactly who that is, right?

At five-thirty or so, I was cooking dinner. And someone knocked at the door. I did not answer.

I don’t like being put in the position where I have to be somewhat of a prick to make my point.

There is more to this story. At one time, I didn’t go to the smoke-shack every day. I used to buy a carton of smokes at a time. Large packs, there are eight in a carton, small packs, ten. It kind of sucked to buy a carton of smokes and then have her show up, and ask to buy a couple of packs of smokes—at cost. And she’d show up the next day and buy another two packs, and at some point, I’m going back and forth every two days to get myself a fucking God-damned carton of smokes—at that rate, I really should take some of her money, and pick up a carton or two for her, too…right?

There was no winning.

It got to the point where I was driving her to the bank on payday. I was taking her downtown to the clinic for her shot, and taking her to the hospital for her monthly blood work…one day she called from work and I ended up taking her and her cousin to their other store, with some massive cake in the back, and then I got to drop her and the cousin off somewhere. I was dropping her off at the grocery store and then going home to wait for her to call so I could go back and pick her up again.

At some point, she was knocking on my door anything up to five times a day, four or five, sometimes even six or seven days a week.

And at some point, I stopped answering the door. Not enough to deter her. She came back multiple times a day, knowing I was at home, because my car is parked right out back.

This went on for a week or ten days. Every fucking day…she’s out there knocking, knocking, and knocking, and I’m in here feeling like a miserable son of a bitch.

And I had to be a prick, didn’t I? Finally, she stopped knocking. I didn’t talk to her for a year.

When I finally started talking to her again, the first few times up in my apartment, she seemed to understand the problem.

“I know I’m not supposed to be up here every day.”

“No. That’s right—you’re not.” That’s because I have a life too.

It’s funny—I don’t spend any time at all in her dark, dank, smelly, grubby little woman-cave on the ground floor. I don’t have a TV—one would think it might be nice to go sit at someone else’s place once in a while, maybe watch a little TV sometimes, but, uh, there’s just no way.

At some point, I had all the disadvantages of a wife or girlfriend with none of the advantages.

It’s a terrible thing.

I don’t want to go out with her.

Nothing personal—but basically, at my age, I don’t want to go out with anyone.

Honestly, if I was eighty years old and looking for companionship, that one might be all right—if only she had her own place and went home once in a while.

Yeah, at some point I started drinking in the afternoons—every afternoon. She came up one day and asked for a ride somewhere, and I said sorry.

I’d already had a few beers and driving was a bad idea. She seemed to understand. Then came the day she lost her keys, and I was the only one around with a car. It was a pitch-black winter’s night. I ended up driving to pick up the superintendent of another building, who used the master key, and then taking the super home again. I’d had a few beers, too. Anything is better than having her sleep on my couch...

Being neighbours is one thing. Being friends is one thing.

Trying to squeeze in my own life, among the incessant requests, was quite frankly, beyond me.

And now, I’m not answering the door again.

Which is kind of sad, when you think about it.

Maybe I could use a friend too.

END

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The Legendary Blood Fiddle.

Louis Shalako photo.

Louis Shalako

This is the legendary Blood Fiddle, which belonged to my friend's grandfather. The story is, he went to the Sarnia rez, bought himself a deaf and dumb girl for about sixteen dollars and made her his wife. They had five daughters and sometime during WW II, he started a band. Years later, she died of cancer, somehow bleeding all over the place and one of the children used the blood to paint the front of the fiddle...

I forget the grandfather's name, but she still has the band going, and she's working on some new songs. She sang a bit of one to me and she definitely has a good voice.

They're not real big, are they.

On this particular instrument, the outer strings are not rigged, as it appears the bridge is broken. The lady says she spent some money, as the thing 'was in pieces' and I guess she knew some guy.

Yeah, we talk once in a while.

At some point, she brought out a real violin. This was in fine condition. For the first time in my life, I held a violin in my hands. The strings were pretty loose, and I put my finger on a line painted on there and began stroking the bow, across, back and forth, just listening to the tone of the thing.

It sounded a lot like a violin.

When I was five or six years old, I asked my parents for a violin, and of course they just laughed.

End