Taking a fit trip
Several years ago, I had a mid-life, midriff crisis. Overnight, it seemed, none of my clothes fit and I was forced to make a choice: either get a wardrobe in a larger size, or refit myself back into the clothes I already had. Frankly, it would have been easier to give all my stuff to Goodwill, but I loved my old classics and chose to take the fit trip.
The first stop on my journey was the doctor's office. After I passed a stress test and got his OK, the next stop was a fitness club. I knew I'd never pull myself into shape on my own. When I signed up for a six-month membership, there was no turning back.
Wanting to start off slowly, I decided to give Aerobics 1 a whirl. The fitness director, who looked like Barbie at the Gym, assured me I could handle it. She lied. I'll never forget that first class. Nothing could have prepared me for the bevy of young beauties that filled the room, all shimmering in their slinky spandex.
Clad in a dated track suit, and old enough to be everybody's mother, I looked like an alien. To make matters worse, the aerobics studio had an enormous glass wall open to the hallway. I suddenly knew how goldfish felt and I didn't like it. Just as I was about to turn and run, another woman my age, also wearing baggy sweats, sauntered into the fishbowl. Maybe I could do this?
The male instructor, thirtyish and built like a Greek god, cranked up the music to an ear-popping volume and began to call out commands in a strange lingo. Sure, I could manage the sidestep and the cha-cha, but what were grapevines and ponies? As for scoops, the only ones I knew were made of chocolate ice cream. I seemed to lose all sense of direction and found myself going the wrong way most of the time - very dangerous in a room full of women who are flying around like a Broadway chorus line.
Following the heart-thumping cardio segment of the class, we did exercises to tone muscles I'd never even heard of. But after a series of squats, I knew what glutes were. Mine were so sore the next day I needed a cushion to sit on. It would have been so easy to walk out that day and never look back. But I didn't, thankfully.
Instead, I resubmitted to the torture several times a week and, in time, the classes got easier. I got the hang of the steps and joined the chorus line.
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