Exercising: I really whaled it

Could it get ANY worse? I know I shouldn't ask that question because, without a doubt, the answer is always a resounding YES!!! But I am beginning to seriously question if there is ANYONE on this planet WORSE at exercising than me. Alright...I better come clean. I've questioned it all along.

Don't get me wrong. It's not all doom-and-gloom here. Despite the apathy...the cynicism...the laziness...the lack of rhythm...the startling inability to perform any cross-lateral movement...the lack of motivation...despite all those impediments...I am still, more or less, showing up and flailing about...all in a vain attempt to fit back into my wedding ring and to be able to get up from a seated position off the floor without the heroic help of anywhere between two to six fourth graders (depending on size (Their's...not mine).

In the vacuous void left by the sad conclusion of Zumba...how I wept...my friend, Amy attempted to provide a more reasonable alternative until the next torture session could be scheduled. Apparently, I was going to walk my way to fitness! How delightful. The video, led by a woman who doesn't blink with high hair from the mid-80s, is surrounded by stick people who apparently were drum majorettes in college because their knees practically touch the ceiling as they walk their way to fitness. Oh...except for the old lady in the back of whom we were to make an emotional connection and "be inspired." "Amy," Geri snarled, trying to lift her leg at least six inches off the ground, "Just so you know...I'm older than that woman you keep calling an old lady."

We then transitioned into what No-Blinky High Hair called The Slide. As I smoothly (like Frankenstein) slid my legs from side-to-side like a speed skater, harsh laughter alerted me to an apparent transgression. "What?" I demanded, cursing myself for my front-of-room position. "We just like how you hold your hands during this move," Rachel told me gently, noting the rigid palms and splayed fingers common to tight-rope walkers and balance beam enthusiasts. I'm still working on mastering the bridge. I feel, on a cerebral level, that I am arched magnificently...that beneath my curved body, toddlers could race with ample head-space clearing. Until...once again...as my shaking thighs fought to create a crescent, a voice called out helpfully, "Amy, you have to lift your bottom UP." "It is UP, Sarah," I gritted out. "Oh," she said, bewildered.

My response to Erin's "supportive email"
expressing how proud she was of us for
continuing our exercise expedition.

It may not sound it...but I am trying. The fact that I joined (only after Amy reassured me that Erin was banned) another class should be testimony to that. An evolution is happening...a metamorphosis. Six months ago, I would NOT have stomped jauntily down the after-school corridors, swinging my sports-bra like a stripper. Now, instead of racing AWAY from Erin, I am now actually racing Erin to beat her to a changing room (I may have had a hallway's head start).

There are still some set-backs. Wrestling into my exercise clothes continues to be a mortifying experience. I can only liken it to trying to put on a wet swim suit as you walk into a spider web. Almost strangling myself first with my sports-bra, I finally maneuvered it into place before realizing something was terribly wrong...traumatizingly wrong. The back of the garment was a series of fun, frivolous laces...sort of corset-style. Except, as I battled the forces of stiff shoulders, limited mobility, near-sightedness, and just plain ineptitude, I had put on the supportive wear BACKWARDS. Oh my. I was shocked speechless. Stunned. Imagine a poor beluga whale caught in a fishing net. Fortunately, I am a huge advocate of catch and release. I spun that sucker around, took a deep breath and realized, I have no where to go but up.