Working It Out

I wonder if all fitness instructors are immune to the passing hatred I feel for them during our fifty minute sessions.

“OK, now we’ll just hold the plank for one minute.”

“I. hate. you.”

It’s reflexive and temporary, but my inner monologue isn’t very genial at the moment.  I have been saving to join the new gym in town, as their childcare room isn’t relegated to a closet like the local Y.  Consequently I’m stiff, sore, and popping Motrin.

Under normal circumstances my slacker side reigns supreme.  However, place me in a classroom of any sort and my competitive nature comes out of hibernation whether or not it is in my best interest.  Tuesday night I changed into my workout clothes with a little trepidation. The limited schedule loosely described the class as cardio-dance.  While, at times, I have the coordination of  drunken adolescent giraffe, I used to be able to muddle my way through an intermediate/advanced step class without causing injury to others.

Slowly we filter into the studio, all true suburbanites, nine women of varying shapes and ages and one straight male.  The instructor arrives, gorgeous, petite, and comfortable in her graceful dancer’s body.   She turns the music on and announces that this week she will be introducing Afro-Caribbean dancing.  Is this a good place to note that the dances with which I’m familiar are generally named the two-step, the waltz, and East Coast swing?

I  believe at some point during the class we all melted into a puddle of self-mortified goo.  Perhaps it was as we followed her across the length of floor leaping, flinging our arms with stiff-jointed imitations of abandon and joy.  Perhaps it was the one-on-one help with the suggestive roll of the pelvis that is now causing me to creak like an old lady in need of a new hip.

Five years ago I may have walked away, but three children have robbed me of most of my dignity and I will be returning for next week’s class.