Jack LaLanne died yesterday.  He was a fitness pioneer.  He was a television pioneer.  He was a juicing pioneer.  And now … he’s dead.  But even up until age 96, Jack had a spring in his step and an unbridled sense of vitality. 

 We should all be so lucky. 

 As I get older, trying to bound out of bed with boundless energy usually takes all the energy I have.  For instance, I went roller skating a few weeks ago.  I couldn’t walk for days afterwards.  Good thing it was a weekend.  I would crawl from my bed to the couch and back to bed.  Looking back I probably should have been in traction.

Back in the day, I used to be a skater extraordinaire.   Every Sunday I would skate my ass off for hours on end.  I was stylish too, even at age 10, I had enough common sense to make my parents buy me a satin “Roller Boogie” jacket.  (Don’t judge.)  My skates glowed in the dark.  And I was infinitely proud of my Goodie comb sticking out of my back pocket.  The one that had my name emblazoned on it.  (Again, NO judging.)

For three years, I was obsessed.  For Chrissake, I saw Xanadu over 30 times.  In the theaters!  My parents would endlessly shuttle me between the Skate Barn and the movie house up the road.  And this was during the height of the ’81 Iranian hostage/oil embargo.  Gas was not only hard to come by, it was at an all-time high.  Didn’t matter.  My parents would do whatever it took to shut me up.  (Looking back, I probably could have SKATED to the rink, but I had really expensive “indoor-only” wheels.)

What a difference 25 years makes!  Two weeks ago, I felt wildly uncoordinated, and that was just trying to put ON my skates.  I flailed around the rink like I was in the midst of some of epileptic seizure.  I got passed on the way to wash my hands by a guy in a wheelchair.

 The whole time I was on the skating rink I thought, “Why am I doing this?”  That was followed by, “I’m going to careen in to that wall and end up a paraplegic.”  Ambidextrous 5-year olds would skate past me with a look of disdain on their face.  “Just you wait,” I barked.  I made an unfortunate choice of wearing a purple shirt that day.  Several 3-year olds skated up to me thinking I was a TeleTubby. 

The thing I found most problematic was looking cool.  In my heyday, my hair was more feathered than Blair’s on Facts of Life.  Suh-wheet.  Two weeks ago, I was sweating so much that my hair was matted to my forehead.  It wasn’t because I was exerting effort.  It was because I was panicked I would break a hip.  Twice, I had to have some kid give me a push because I had stopped in the middle of the roller rink and couldn’t get started again.  Even when I was moving, I looked like the Tin Man — in desperate need of some WD-40.

I read somewhere that Jack LaLanne swam every single day before his death.  Maybe I should try that.  Lord knows I’m not going anywhere near a skating rink again. Me + shoes with eight wheels = epic fail of Biblical proportions. 

By the way, I can no longer fit in to my “Roller Boogie” satin jacket.  Does anyone want it?