Gone exercisin'
My friend Jen is a sadist. I had no idea. For a year or so now, we've sat in her living room, drank bottles of wine, watched Grey's and Glee, and complained about journalism. It goes to show you never can tell. There were signs, of course. She talked about leading a class at a local gym.
Her friendly talk soon turned to trash talk. What if I came on a furlough or day off? Could I keep up? Nope, I told her, I couldn't keep up. I was more than willing to cede it. Let the 90-year-old lady from her class win this round. And I held this position for months until a blueberry vodka made me say stupid things. Like: "Sure, I'll come to class. Bring it on!"
So, I went to the Sport and Health this morning. Oriented myself. Did a little stretching. Asked Jen about the equipment in the room. Would I need any of this stuff? Nope, Jen said. But she's a sadist and — maybe paying me back for attending her surprise birthday party, at which, in shock, she amusingly told every one among us, "You're a liar" — a liar.
There would be hand weights. "No," Jen says, "those are too light for you. You need heavier ones." There would be a weight bar. "Oh," one of the nice older ladies in the class says, "that's too light for you. You want a heavier one." Everyone in the class besides me is a nice, older lady. There would also be a mat and a towel. And so, so much pain.
I found later the class was "Cardio C.S.I." for cardio strength intervals and presumably the Who scream. "This interval class combines cardio, strength, endurance, and balance training for a physical and mental challenge," the blurb said. They beat you then mess with your mind.
All I remember is the moving and the sweating. And key moments. A ways into the class, I was soaked and had twice nearly crashed into the equipment stacked in the back of the room. But it had to be nearly over, thank God. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed.
Jen yelled out steps and moves, and there was a big mirror and I was left-handed. It felt like learning square-dancing as a fourth grader. If I remember that day correctly, unable to move my feet the right way, I hyperventilated. That didn't happen this time. But only out of pride.
The motion continued. Kicking! Spinning! Waving our arms in the air, at which I was surprisingly not awesome. What I was good at: crunches. What I was not get at: everything else, but most particularly touching one foot to the other in time with the music (techno Counting Crows!). You know that scene in The Jerk when Navin learns to dance? Exactly.
Look at this man! He has just experienced a Cardio C.S.I. class. What a wreck. A destroyed, sweaty Colossus. Toppled, let the sand bury him and future generations forget his name. He survived the guns but not the aerobics, scribes would write. And nice older ladies ruled the land.
But I did keep up. I'm glad about that. No one died. I didn't crash into equipment or anyone else. I had even greater appreciation for Jen — who, despite being a sadist, is a good sadist — and my mom, who may or may not take a class like this regularly. I went home, drank all the water in Arlington and hoped, one day, my body would work again.
June 29th, 2010 at 11:58 PM
Please let me know how your body feels tomorrow. So Blueberry vodka is the key to your vault, huh? If only I had known! There's a bottle in my liquor cabinet that has now had your name written all over it.
June 30th, 2010 at 6:24 AM
Shoulders and hamstrings are feeling it this morning. But even right now they admit they're better off for the experience.
August 1st, 2010 at 12:03 PM
[...] summer goal is complete. Shoot a gun, check. Take a cardio class, check. See the Crime Museum, check. Attend a dog party, check. Drive a high-speed go-kart, check, twice [...]