Returing to gymnastics after 30 years bruises ego

I lean on the gas pedal as Kurt Cobain moans against the sunshine, wondering if I can make it on time. Bustling up and down the Palmer-Wasilla Highway under the threat of tardiness is familiar to me, but it’s usually in the service of little kids. This time I’m chasing my own appointment, to Adult Tumbling class at a local gym. It’s been 28 years since my last cartwheel on the balance beam.

How did Groucho Marx phrase it? “I wouldn’t be a member of any club that’d have me.” My approach seems to be the opposite — I’m all too eager to join any pursuit that’ll have me. Impulsive treks down the Kenai with a van full of kids and half a cooler of food? Let’s go. Ill-conceived political efforts? Sign me up. However unintentionally, a theme of my life is finding myself immersed in questionable company and not quite remembering how I got there.

Raising kids can erode much of life’s spontaneity and lighthearted affiliations, of course, replacing them with a mission nobody in their right mind would trade for bumper stickers or Girdwood gas station dinners. While this depth is an adventure in its own right, time becomes limited and fitness too easily drops away. We’re grateful to live in the Mat-Su Valley, among an abundance of wholesome activities for children. But no matter the worthy destinations, parents can find themselves driving relentless distances for hours as a spectator. A lot of sitting. I was tired of the shuffle.

So that’s what led me to adult gymnastics last Saturday afternoon. I arrive on time after all, and wait for my friend, Joy — another mom also making her debut after three decades away from the sport. Before approaching the floor and the bars, we remove so much jewelry it feels like going in for surgery.

My exercise habits wobble between non-existent and grumbling through an old yoga DVD. As for carving out a special time, I have tried the 5 a.m. solitude and enjoyed it — but at this stage in life it’s a thrill to have a coach. Our class was animated by the muscles and motivation of two coaches, husband and wife. My nerves were well-soothed by the welcoming spirit of the veteran students who hurl themselves into the air and make it look easy. I get positive feedback for my flexibility, but mostly it feels like going limp. I’m either on the verge of cathartic blackout or I’m going to make it to the water fountain.

There’s so little power in my legs, which comes as a shock. My once-beloved cartwheels do not come easily, and when prompted to do a somersault along an inclined mat, I land splayed out like pancake batter. My friend and I stretch, drill, slide, giggle and hang, with our every effort met by old injuries and the grit of life’s demands. We have pushed 11 babies into being, between the two of us, with our bodies over the past 10 years. We know we’re strong. Joy and I are eager to refine that strength into the momentum and precision we see around us.

As a mother, it’s vital to risk the exhilaration (and subsequent humiliation) of trying new things. I need my children to view me apart from a coffee-swilling chauffeur who demands sparkly teeth and daily prayers. I want them to know about my dormant dreams, independent of my devotion to them.

After class, I relished spinning the ignition of my husband’s hulking pickup truck and driving home. Come as you are, indeed. I can’t wait to go back.

However feebly I eked out that first 90 minutes, it felt like a beginning that I’ll remember well. For the record, my name is Tiffany and I’m a gymnast.

Tiffany Borges is a grateful wife and mother who writes from downtown Wasilla. She believes in good nail polish, print newspapers and land lines.