MSI Press Blog

  They say aging is about loss. I say it’s about leverage. At 75, I’m not building bone like I used to—but I’m building strength, balance, and resilience. My doctor doesn’t give me meds to grow bone mass. He gives me ones that make my bones less likely to break if I fall. That’s not a compromise—it’s a strategy. Because this ninja doesn’t plan to fall. She plans to land. I take calcium. I lift weights. I run like I’m chasing my 20s. I’ve reduced my omeprazole to a maintenance dose, because I know it can cause bone resorption. I listen to my body, and I advocate for it. I don’t ask for perfection—I ask for protection. My bones may not be textbook dense, but they’re smart. They’ve carried me through childbirth, Army drills, caregiving, and cardio. They’ve adapted to a body that doesn’t sweat, a heart that recovers in 30 seconds, and a life that never slows down. So no, I’m not fragile. I’m forged. Every step, every sprint, every choice—bone by bone, I’ve built a life that holds....

  They say a 75-year-old woman shouldn’t be clocking a 10-minute mile. They also say your heart rate shouldn’t hit 183 unless you’re being chased by a bear. But here I am—petite, cardio-cleared, and apparently part furnace—turning beet red on the treadmill while my heart hums along like a racehorse. I don’t sweat. Never have. Not in Army drills, not in summer heat, not even during childbirth. My body prefers to radiate heat like a wood stove: silent, efficient, and alarming to onlookers. After two miles, I look like I’ve been boiled. People panic. I feel fine. My resting heart rate? Mid-50s. My recovery time? Back to baseline in 30 seconds. My doctor? Slightly baffled but respectfully hands-off. “If you’re not uncomfortable,” he says, “you’re fine.” I take that as medical clearance for ninja status. Menopause? It snuck past me like a cat in the night. No symptoms, no drama—just one day, as I approached 63, I stopped needing Tampax. I was glad to give up the expense but mildly an...

  I don’t have a Russian inhalator. Wish I did; when I was working in Siberia years ago, those things would cure my bronchitis nearly instantly, always within three days of daily visits to the infirmary at the pansionat, where phlegm was loosened with a front and back heating pad, following by 15 minutes of ingalatsiya evkaliptom with a hand-held vaporizer for mouth inhalation not available in the USA. But I do have access to hot showers, a heating pads -- and a bottle of eucalyptus oil and a pair of hands that remember Siberia. When the airways clog and the breath turns ragged, I rub a drop of eucalyptus oil into my palm, cup it near my mouth, and inhale—gently, through parted lips. No nose. No force. Just vapor and memory. And I moderate the amount by the distance between my hand and my mouth. This is my portable apothecary : Eucalyptus for breath : Diluted, never raw. A forest in my fist. Chamomile for calm : Dabbed on temples, it hushes the nervous system. Frankincense for...

  When your lungs sound like a kettle on the boil and every attempt at exertion ends in a coughing fit, the dojo goes quiet. But Grandma Ninja doesn’t quit—she adapts. This week, under attack from an upper respiratory infection sliding into bronchtiis, I traded my weights for wall presses, my cardio for controlled exhales. No gym. No sweat. Just breath-aware micro-movements and biomechanical cunning. Isometric holds : Pressing palms into the wall, thighs into a pillow. Muscles fire. Breath stays calm. Seated resistance : Bands looped around ankles and wrists. No huffing, no puffing—just quiet strength. Mental rehearsal : I picture myself lifting, balancing, walking with precision. The body listens. Lymph flow rituals : Legs elevated, ankles circling, fingers tapping. Circulation without chaos. I’ve learned that strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the stillness between coughs, the decision to move gently, the refusal to vanish. I’m not sidelined. I’m training in steal...