Yikes! I'm The Oldest One At My Workout Studio

And my incontinence undies and I have some knowledge to drop.

By
Published October 17, 2025
Sarah Valencia/Courtesy CorePower Yoga

Hello! It’s me, a Gen-X lady among 20- and 30-somethings in my favorite trendy fitness class. You may not see me, considering I traded in societal visibility long ago for a stroller and a moth-eaten pelvic floor. But when I’m not busy foraging for 634 grams of plant-based protein my perimenopause tele-coach says I must consume daily to slow my body’s inevitable slide into Homer Simpson territory [See footnote 1]; feverishly hounding local pharmacies to see if they have my/my kid’s/my Doodle’s ADHD medication in stock [See footnote 2]; or berating myself for failing to balance family and career, you can find me here, the lone 49-year-old amongst a sea of skin-tone Alo [See footnote 3] onesie-clad Gen Zers and chrome-manicured cusp millennials.

Why? Because for Sandwich Generation women like me, life is a relentless circus of Whack-a-Mole dumpster fires. And as the saying goes, “When life gives you dumpster fires, perform aspirational squats to Megan Thee Stallion’s ‘One Margarita’ in a 102ºF hotbox so when you leave, the dumpster fires feel a little less blistering.”

I’ve been working out ever since the girls on MTV’s 1993 Spring Break gave me an unachievable physical standard to run, lift and starve my way toward. Buns of Steel, Tae Bo, SoulCycle, strength training — I’ve done it all.

I’m in great shape, and I can power through class alongside all of you colonoscopy virgins.

Alas, my body is changing, though, and nowhere is it more searingly apparent than in my favorite trendy fitness class. As the eldest member of this workout studio, I’m honored to assume the role of Ghost of Workouts' Future. So, heed my words … class is in session.

1. Appreciate your pelvic floor.

Despite peeing nanoseconds before class begins, jumping jacks elicit a Pavlovian dribble response that no amount of Costco checkout-line Kegeling can thwart. Hence, my trusty pee-pee safe thong panties, a sort of sexy perimenopausal Pull-Up capable of absorbing three teaspoons of liquid. This also explains my signature Gen-X jumping jack — arms move full range, legs remain clamped together, bunny-hopping side to side.

Additionally, the once-benign act of raising a leg skyward in Three-Legged Downward Dog now yawns open a vaginal portal to another dimension [See footnote 4], sucking in air that, unless I wish to cause a scene, must be held until the beat drops during Lil Jon and DJ Snake’s “Turn Down for What,” at which point it can be strategically expelled.

2. Own the body positivity that is your birthright.

Does this younger set know how lucky they are to wear ultra-high-waisted leggings with confidence? Growing up, our pants hit halfway between the navel and the clitoris; society demanded concave, Britney Spears tummies. There were no plus-size, single-legged Victoria’s Secret models with glitter-accentuated stretch marks and the occasional lazy eye. Nope. We had to walk uphill both ways to Step Aerobics class in baggy T-shirts and anti-cellulite FitFlops, counting calories on our graphing calculators the entire way. Anyway, your body positivity makes me less self-conscious about being the only person wearing sneakers in this barefoot class [See footnote 5].

3. Sorry if I’m smelly.

I used to be like those vanilla-perfumed girls, hitting the bars post-workout with just a quick slick of drugstore deodorant. Now I self-fumigate with a prescription-strength product containing the stuff forensic investigators smear under their noses to camouflage the odor of decomposing bodies. And my pits still stink like composted tacos. Additionally, I apologize for any offensive-smelling burps resulting from the eight tampon-sized hair-growth supplements I choke down daily.

Sometimes, when the instructor blasts Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” during Savasana, I’ll skip the meditation my desiccated nervous system so desperately needs and instead daydream about when I was a hot, young babe who could cry her way out of speeding tickets and didn’t need earplugs, mouth tape, CBD gummies, sweat-wicking pajamas and an estrogen patch to get four hours of broken sleep.

Even though I have enough downy facial hair to be mistaken for Ed Sheeran, I can still bang out as many pushups as they can — Glennon Doyle told me I’m a goddamn cheetah!

The next time you see me in Three-Legged Down Dog, climb inside my portal and have a seat in my waiting room. I’ll be ready to talk just as soon as the beat drops.

[1] To calculate the exact amount of protein you need to combat hormone-driven shapeshifting, divide your high school graduation year by the number of Dr. Becky podcasts downloaded on your phone, then subtract the number of anti-aging serums currently in your 10-year-old daughter’s skincare fridge.

[2] If TikTok hasn’t yet diagnosed you with midlife ADHD, what are you even doing?

[3] I’m partial to Lululemon dupe leggings from only-on-Amazon companies that name themselves by picking a type of cheese and de-voweling it: MZZRLL; GRGNZL; PRMGN-RGGN.

[4] Another fun door prize from having birthed two kids: Your bladder and uterus just sort of float around your midsection untethered, creating a black hole eager to vacuum up anything in its path. Sort of like a vaginal Dyson.

[5] Years of hardcore exercise have left me with hallux rigidus, which sounds like a side effect of too much Viagra, but is basically early arthritis in my big toes.

 

Can any of you relate to the woman above? Let us know in the comments below.

Leslie Goldman is a Chicago-based writer who covers all things health, wellness, women and parenting. She is a regular contributor to AARP's TheGirlfriend.com, as well as O: The Oprah Magazine, Better Homes & Gardens, Parents and more. Her grandfather invented jogging, and Beyonce once touched her elbow. Read more of her work at lesliegoldmanwrites.com.