I forced myself to go to the Y this morning. It was either that or continue ironing. I hate to iron. It took me twenty minutes to finish one of my husband's shirts and as I swished over the last section, I noticed two huge globlar stains smack on the front placket. Above the tuck in line. That's just not fair. I pulled the plug out of the wall and the exercise schedule off the back wall in the closet. (I don't want that thing staring at me from a public space.)
I could make the 9:30 class but couldn't tell what it was. All classes have a two-letter code next to them — one for the class name and one for the teacher's initials. This one said, "BC, JS." I couldn't find a BC or JS class code; but there were two teachers with those initials. Maybe they took turns teaching. I figured if it looked scary, I'd head to the treadmill.
I walked into the room where some regulars were already assembled. They looked fit and happy. Good sign. The teacher was my favorite Pilates instructor — another good sign. I grabbed my step, weights and jumprope, all proud of myself for sacrificing the ironing for my newfound dedication to exercise and health.
We warmed up by walking around the room. I could handle that. "Now grab an exercise ball when you walk past them." I grabbed a seemingly harmless big blue ball that made me feel like I was walking around with a Planet Earth toy. I followed instructions and pushed the earth up, out and over my head until it felt as heavy as a real planet.
"Step left, right, knees bent, stay low! No bouncing, this is supposed to be hard! Why do you think it's called Boot Camp? Come on, fifty more!" Boot Camp? BC didn't stand for Beth Campell? Just then I heard the echoing clank of an iron lock bar on the studio door.
I hadn't touched a jump rope since I was eight. The teacher ordered us to jump a minute nonstop. I tried to think of childhood rhymes to forget the pain. "Peanut Butter, Peanut Butter and Jelly…" I remembered I hadn't eaten breakfast. We walked 15 seconds, then jumped two minutes. "Teeter totter, teeter totter, wash your face with dirty water…" After a ten second break, we had to jump another minute and a half. "Hail Mary…"
After the 967th (I counted) sit up, Formerly Favorite Teacher announced the clock was fast. "Only two minutes until stretching!" I lived for stretching. Except by the time the "easy" part of class arrived, my muscles were shaking uncontrollably, my shoes wouldn't grip the floor and I fell off my big blue ball.
I crawled towards the door, scraping my car keys along the wood floor. "Thanks for coming, Karen. Will you join us next week?"
"I'd love to, but I have to iron."
