Precerpt from Grandma's Ninja Training Diary: Running Hot
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...