Now We Are Spry

When Ruth and I were mere girls of 60 or so, wrapping up the coffee date that sealed our friendship, she made a declaration about the next phase of her life. Call her old, call her lined. Don’t ever—ever—call her spry.

What a joyous hour we’d shared. Books and politics, children and husbands, the flamboyant younger sisters who baffled and bewitched us both. Of all our touchpoints, Ruth saved the best for last. The s-word.

Hell, no, I said. Not spry. Spry was for the doddering old dears we’d never be. Off I strode into the sunshine, fastest person on the sidewalk.

At 74, I don’t look all that different from the laughing woman Ruth met in a Starbucks on the Upper West Side. Not at first glance, anyway. A scarf hides the folds in my neck; a big hat calls attention to my not-quite-ageless eyes. And you should see me part crowds on the sidewalk. I feel different, though. My feet can handle only so many steps per day, most allocated for my dog. As Leonard Cohen put it, “I ache in the places where I used to play.” The unthinkable has happened: I am spry.

Once upon a time I danced around my room to The Who’s “My Generation.” Hoping to die before I got old seemed a bit extreme, but only because I couldn’t picture old age in my future. “I don’t intend to grow old gracefully,” said the fresh-faced model in a 1989 ad from Oil of Olay. “I intend to fight it every step of the way.” Skincare was the least of my weapons. I had leafy greens, vitamins and a killer fitness routine that justified the purchase of a shiny Lycra wardrobe. Six days a week, I hopped aboard an exercise bike and furiously pedalled to nowhere.

It was a chest of drawers from IKEA that set me on the path to spryness. My husband needed help assembling it. All I had to do was hold the blasted thing steady while he reached for missing screws and heaved the frame around. Down it crashed on my foot, breaking my big toe. Our family doctor warned that it might become arthritic one day. Years passed, but I powered on.

First came occasional twinges, the IKEA toe whispering, “Hey, remember me?” Then louder, more insistent nattering. The toe objected to dancing, hiking and shoes with the least hint of beauty. It wouldn’t point for Pilates or fold underneath me for child’s pose. At last, another doctor told me, X-ray in hand, what exactly was up with my toe—severe degenerative osteoarthritis.

The bungalow we’ve rented for the winter contains a fine old copy of Webster’s New World College Dictionary, with red and gold thumb notches. For virtual Pilates, I prop my iPad against it. How spry I am, still counting down the hundreds in Pilates. Webster tells me “spry” is derived from the Swedish “sprygg,” which puts me in mind of a green shoot. “Full of life, active, nimble, brisk.” So far, so good. Then the kicker: “esp. though elderly.”

I asked Google for examples of “spry” used in a sentence. No wonder some of us can’t bear the word. “She is so spry, alert and enthusiastic that it is difficult to imagine you are talking to a woman in her sixties.” “His clothing was pressed and his appearance spry despite his almost sixty years.” Almost sixty! How does the poor codger hobble around in his fuzzy slippers and coffee-stained cardigan?

While I’m no lexicographer, I’ve got spry cred. I know the resolve and consistency it takes. Some people push their limits at the gym so they can hike the Camino. I follow a program in order to sit in my chair, sleep on my bed and walk my dog without pain. This morning I lay on a mat for virtual Feldenkrais, in which the movements are so gentle, you couldn’t call them exercise. “Stay in the pleasant,” says the teacher. “Stay in the fun. Make the movement likeable.”

The other day on a waterfront path, Casey’s four legs and my two in rhythm, it struck me that nothing hurt. My shoulders, my hips, even—wonder of wonders—my feet might as well have been made for this moment. It was sunlight, it was grass, it was the squirrel that Casey thought would soon be his, although no squirrel ever was or will be. It was the cyclist who waved and the gray-haired sister in spryness who said, “Good morning” as she passed in her tights and windbreaker. I didn’t think to ask how long the moment would last, or when the next would come my way. The moment was here, the moment was now. Oh, to be spry forever.

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