My misadventures at the gym continue.
I’m trying. I really am. I’m pretty safe on the elliptical and I can even hold my own at yoga, although I can assure you that I do not look all graceful and poised like the gals in the Athleta catalog. Yesterday I decided to try a class called Step Plus Abs.
Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy. I used to take Step classes all the time
on the rare occasion I actually dragged my a$$ to the gym about 10 years ago. Step, check! AND I have Abs . . . so, check!
There was a nice range of body-types and ages and the instructor didn’t look too Barbie, so I felt like I could handle it. And I did all right, until about 20 minutes in when I felt all gotta.getta.sippa.water again, just like when I was enduring Wes’s torture chamber. But the worst part of it wasn’t for me; it was for the poor woman standing behind me.
She may have been perfectly coordinated when she walked in, but after watching me flail about as if my appendages were independent of my body, I can pretty much guarantee that her brain was sending signals her arms and legs weren’t receiving. It’s hard to watch someone do one thing and make your body register something else.
You see, I am not known for my coordination. At 37, I have come to accept this part of my personality. I no longer get embarrassed when I trip UP the stairs or completely miss a curb – it’s simply part of my nature and I choose to embrace it. I did not inherit ANY athletic ability, which is why I was in the band . . . you didn’t have to try out for that.
I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader. I wanted the little skirt and the pom pons, the ringlets and the hair ribbons. But alas, I was not destined for sideline glory. (When I became, by default because no one else would do it, a cheerleading coach my first few years of teaching, I am SURE my high school peers were thinking, “wait, wha?”) I tried out for softball, but apparently one needs a modicum of athletic ability to play. I tried out for volleyball. Same story. I was the manager for the gymnastics team. Know what that means? Not even remotely good enough to be considered for the team, but if you wanna drag mats out for us, that'd be super, thanks.
This little trip down memory lane should provide you with an image of what my step-class performance entailed. I am not being modest. (Because modest I am NOT.)
|"No, I'm not having a seizure. |
So to anyone who may be reading this and feeling shy about taking a class at the gym, please, I urge you to join me. Chances are, you’re going to look like Britney Spears on the dance floor, and I’m gonna look like Elaine from Seinfeld. . . all thumbs and ankles, with little self-awareness. And, in closing, to the woman who had the misfortune to be behind me in step class, please accept my sincerest apology for forcing you to witness my epic lack of coordination.