The bet is on! My friend S and I have conferred and decided that we must go to the gym three times per week. If not, we have to pay the other $10. Big ups to S for taking this on with me!
First things first - going to a gym meant joining a gym. Stop one was the big box gym. Gleaming equipment, more televisions than a Best Buy, a sauna, and an enormous playroom (mysteriously empty of toys). After the tour, we sat down to discuss cost. This is where things got shady. First of all, the membership price should not change daily – it’s not the NASDAQ. Second, it should be non-negotiable. The longer we sat, the lower the price. I didn’t appreciate the used car feeling of it all. So, onto the second choice: old equipment, a handful of TVs, no extras, and a small playroom. Obviously, I chose the second one. No joining fee, reasonable membership dues, personal training sessions (with follow-ups to keep me honest), and lots of classes. And did I mention the old ladies? Yeah, I’ll come back to them.
(By the way, during my tours, I also discovered my body mass index. As an FYI, if you are about to freeze to death on an ice planet, slitting me open will indeed keep you warm. I could also be used to make lots of candles or soap, whichever you prefer.)
So today was my first class and I am happy to report that I did not, at any point, need defibrillators. But I swear it was touch and go for a while. My first class was step. Step on, step off. Sounds simple? Not when you have the coordination of a drunken hippo. I tried not to take it personally when the woman behind me left the class early. I think I was making her nauseas with my bobbing and weaving. Luckily, the woman directly in front of me was a friend, though I am not sure this made the fact that I spent the entire class staring at her ass more or less embarrassing. (I was just trying to follow along- honest!) I just couldn’t follow the instructor – she was facing us, so all of her footwork was backward. Since I am the type of visual learner who actually has to turn the map in the direction in which we are going to understand it and who could still use am L and R on my shoes, this was a nightmare. To keep myself motivated, I kept up a steady string of inaudible swearing. I dropped more f-bombs than a Tarantino movie. I also laughed a lot. What else can you do when the instructor calls out, “Be light on your feet” when you can’t even pick them off the ground fully because you are so tired? Or when you are a full two beats behind the music, using the wrong leg, on the wrong side of the step? Or when the little old lady who is twice your age and half your size is not only keeping up, but seems to be barely breaking a sweat and is using hand weights to make it that much more challenging? Laugh. And curse.
Will I be back? Yup. Will I continue to hate it? Yup. Will I eventually stay on the step and not make a total ass out of myself? Questionable. But I will certainly keep trying. If not, I’m going to owe S a whole lot of money.