I’m just going to admit it- I’m uncoordinated. I will never be good at sports or exercising. Never have been, do not aspire to it. First of all, going to a gym without at least some color on my face- blush or lipstick -would be sort of horrifying for me. I would hate to inflict that on anyone. I no longer buy swimsuits. I still call them bathing suits-I do not wear bathing suits so as not to inflict my aging body on the general public. I can wear a cute cover up and have a fine old time. 
The last time I tried exercising in a group publically was in an aerobics class at my church at least 30 years ago- it was a disaster– no really, I am not kidding. The building had indoor/outdoor carpeting. I had on a cute new outfit with socks and tennis shoes. I stood on the back row of a class of 30 women, just in case. I could not get the steps right, I could not shift several steps to the right and hop, flailing my arms around in the air at the same time. I hopped-scooted over…my tennis shoe caught on the indoor outdoor carpet– I stumbled backwards, trying not to hurt anyone or break their rhythm and ended up flinging myself into a whole wall of metal folding chairs. It was not pretty, it was loud with all of those chairs falling like steel dominoes. The acoustics in that room are pretty good… let’s just say this was not a joyful noise unto the Lord.
I have tried to explain being uncoordinated for years- especially when folks tell me about steps and swings and all manner of fitness routines. I cannot risk it. I’m not proud of this. I have tried walking on a tread mill more than once and more than once have managed to trip and skid off, machine still rolling.
My husband, a person of considerable athletic skill, has known and accepted my uncoordinated style; since as newlyweds he let me go with him on a run…when we got back he said-
- ‘How ’bout letting me run by myself from now on?‘
- ‘Why?’
- ‘Well your feet flap on the pavement.’ Enough said.
I signed up for golf lessons many years ago…the instructor told me at the end of the first lesson- ‘Ma’am, golf just isn’t your game.’ He didn’t offer to return my money…I didn’t ask either.
I really accepted my ineptness early on…when I was in college I was required to have a certain amount of physical education.
- I took tennis.
- I knew the rules, I aced the written tests.
- When my grade came out, it was a glaring ‘B’ –
- I asked the instructor why he had given me a B-
- Graciously he said, ‘You don’t have the Killer Instinct.’
Most Southern folks start planning their funerals when they are in their 40’s if not before…Please believe me, I know this- we have a morbid fascination with the process. It could be argued that dyin’ is more fascinating in the South. When I want my husband to listen to anything I am saying – I just have to say- ‘When I die…’ or ‘I want this played at my funeral.’ He listens up.
Recently I was contemplating an extra roll of fat I had found- it’s none of your business where I found it-I was thinking maybe I should give fitness another chance. I’ve got some important tests coming up- my cholesterol screening and BMI. I thought of all the personal risks involved. To exercise is risky for me. I have decided that having-
Beloved Wife and Mother
She Never had the Killer Instinct
Carved on my tombstone-is sounding better and better all the time.
Meanwhile, before I start pushing up daisies- I’m keeping close to the ground and digging in my garden…
Love y’all, Camellia
The photograph of the tennis player and the swimmer are from a vintage encyclopedia- called The New Wonder World- last copyright- 1941 by Geo. L. Shuman and Co.
The women on treadmills- attributed to an article by Huffingon Post
The golfer, the group photograph of women exercising and the tombstone from AOL images and may be subject to copyright.
I completely adored her! Our older daughter is named for her. A big part of the foundation of her life was to make sure her table was laden with food, the extra produce was canned and preserved. And while she was a ‘true daughter’ of the confederacy- I never detected the least bit of mean-spirited nonsense in Grandmamas at all toward anyone, I never heard a slang term used by her or about anyone. I wrote in my journal- ‘When Grandmamas hugs me, it is like sinking into a feather bed.’ She was ample, she was generous, she was bighearted. She wrote me five page letters that she called ‘newspapers’, giving me all of the latest triumphs and tragedies from family, friends and community. It is well known in the South- that
Southern women have a great affection for their Baseboards…I have never heard women of other cultures quite so fascinated with whether or not their baseboards are clean. A friend told me recently that she wasn’t sure her housecleaning service was doing a good enough job. She shares the same cleaning service with another friend, who had called and said, ‘I’m not sure they’ve been cleaning these baseboards!’ My friend said, ‘Well I have to tell them to clean mine, they don’t think of it on their own, but Lord knows I asked them when I hired them if they clean windowsills, crown molding and baseboards, though I never asked about the chair rails.’ Now, if weeds are God’s invitation to pray in the garden, checking baseboards will get you on your knees in the home. It’s upsetting to be paying someone to do this – however, when life isn’t going all that well…get on your knees and get those baseboards clean– cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.
Camellia's Cottage 