Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Day 2

I walked into my very first Group Fitness Class last week with some trepidation.

You see, many moons have passed since last I saw my running shoes, much less gave my sweat glands reason to make themselves known. (I've been holding true to the saying [to be read in your best Scarlett O'Hara]: Horses sweat; men perspire; women glisten.)

Anyway, this class was to be the kick in my ass that would get my ass in shape. 30 minutes of HighImpactCardio! and 30 minutes of sculpting, which appealed to my artistic/sensitive side. Entering the studio, I warily appraised my four other classmates—my fellow travelers in Health and Well-Being. What saggy, sad sacks we all were! It was delightful! When the music was pumping and we were all jiggling awkwardly, I watched as our faces all turned splotchy purple in beautiful synchronicity and solidarity. By the end, dear readers, I was even the star pupil! Still hopping and stretching with gusto while the rest were just flopping arms forward in a lackluster display.

Emboldened by my triumph, I felt ready for a mid-day class. Instead of eating Pop-Tarts at my desk for lunch, I opted for Health and Well-Being. At the risk of being a little heavy-handed with my foreshadowing, I'll never make that mistake again.

I walked into the studio, and glanced around in disbelief at the assembled crowd. Where were my four sad-sack classmates? Why does everyone look like an instructor? Why, for the love of Christ, are they all picking up barbells? Little did I know, I had stumbled upon a BodyPump! class, a despicable invention designed to vaporize the connective tissue holding your muscles to your bones in 50 agonizing minutes of lifting things. Lifting things! That's what eager-to-please considerate boyfriends are for! What's next, a class in which I have to squash cockroaches with a 50 pound weight strapped to my back?

As I stood squatting and lunging and pumping and trying to maintain consciousness despite the darkness spreading from the corners of my eyes, I could hear the tribe of masochists around me actually cheering. "Whoo!" "Yeah!" "Awright!"

"Do you feel it?" mocked Tony, our be-muscled instructor, leering sadistically into my house of pain. It was all so very Lord of the Flies, and I was Piggy. By the end of the longest 50 minutes ever, I was left broken and bedraggled; a mere skidmark in spandex on the studio floor.

It took all the strength of character I had to get my rubbery limbs back to my office. Which poignantly reminds one of the urban legends one hears in regard to exercise: it lifts your spirits, it gives you energy, it makes you feel good. Ha! Operation Hot Abs is called off. Someone get me my Pop Tart!


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