When I hit the 30-minute mark, I wasn’t so sure it had been a good idea to see what the “8:30 a.m. Saturday Special” was at the gym.
When the curvy instructor dropped back and informed me that my lunge wasn’t one, I knew it had been a mistake.
There were just five of us there that morning, all women: an aerobics instructor taking her friend’s class, a woman in a “I love running” t-shirt, a much older woman in top shape who put all of us to shame, a slightly heavier middle-aged woman whose lunges were also corrected, and myself.
I think the other four were regular class participants. It’s usually taught Monday and Wednesday nights, but the Saturday class is taught by a rotation of instructors.
I didn’t know what I was walking into: just that I was going to eat more than is good for me at Sunday’s Superbowl festivities and I wanted to start the weekend out right.
I held my own for the first 25 minutes, struggling to keep up with the foot work or which arm punched when, but that’s to be expected with any new program.
Then came the lunges.
I was still hanging in there, shakily, until she dropped back alongside me. “That,” she said in a voice that allowed no discussion, even if I had the breath to argue, “Is not a lunge.”
And when she moved my back foot back another six inches? I couldn’t keep up and thought I’d vomit. She caught me taking a break and crinkled her eyes at me in what I think she meant to be a smile and told me not to stop, but it was half-hearted; I think she knew better.
I considered vomiting on her floor in retaliation, but thought better of it.
Today every step hurts. I reach for my water and wonder if my hand can close hard enough to hold it. I stand and wonder if my calves can support my weight. I woke up and my arm refused to stretch out
So crazy workout lady, I hope you’re happy. Everyone probably thinks I’m hung over from last night but I had nary a drop of alcohol and really I’m just in pain from your little “special” Saturday morning.
Oh, and I like my lunges better. I think I’ll stick with them, ‘K?
* * *
And on an entirely different note… Apparently, you don’t have to be able to sing to make your living as singer (right Fergie?). And to all the Black Eyed Peas: periods in your name and lights in your clothes (or armor?) does not make an appalling performance remotely good. Even with weird dancing light-up people. Maybe work on the whole carry-a-tune part first.
So dear NFL: assuming you can get your act together enough to even HAVE football and a Superbowl next year, try to pick a half-time show that does not leave your audience praying it will be over soon.
Cruel and unusual punishment, that’s all I have to say.