For someone who has spent nearly fifty years in the fitness industry, my social media feeds have become…interesting.
Every day I’m served another parade of sixty-something fitness “experts” announcing, “I’m 67!” before launching into some circus act involving rings, kettlebells, handstands, or a movement that would make my orthopedic surgeon start filling out paperwork.
Good for them.
But I can’t help wondering: Who is this for?
This isn’t instruction. It’s performance.
The old message was, “Come exercise with me.” Today’s message is often, “Look what I can do.”
There’s a difference.
I don’t need an iron cross. I need to ride a century without my back giving out on the last twenty miles. I need to stand and teach a spin class for forty-five minutes and still have something left for the next one. I need my hands steady enough to play guitar the way I want to, not the way arthritis decides I’m allowed to.
Fitness should prepare us for living, not auditioning.
Whenever I see another reel featuring some astonishing feat of strength or flexibility, I ask one simple question:
If I learned to do this, how would it make my everyday life better?
If the answer is, “It would make a great Instagram video,” I keep scrolling.
Nearly five decades in, and I still don’t need an audience. I need groceries carried, a bike ridden, a set of strings that still ring true under my fingers. I need a beach in Capitola, lunch at Gail’s, and a long walk with a friend I’ve known long enough to go quiet with.
That’s the whole job. Everything else is just noise with good lighting.
Next week I'm asking a harder question: what does wellness even mean anymore?