He is trying to kill me. I swear it. I recovered from the pain of last week, or so I thought. Then I went again this week because I committed to it. Eye on the prize, eye on the prize. My legs almost gave out about 20 minutes in. I wasn’t even really out of breath. But then, how could I be if I couldn’t move? “Keep going!” bellows Aron, our super fit instructor. When he demonstrates the exercises it looks so freaking easy. It probably is. If you have no body fat and do them many times a day. Which I don’t. Two to three times a week is plenty for me. I’d like to be able to put my skates on come Sunday.
One of the gals in the class turned and asked me if it was my first time there. I shook my head. “Nope, fourth”. Was it that obvious? I looked in the gym mirror and it WAS that obvious. Red-faced, lumpy, and hair flying everywhere. That’s me. Former skating competitor turned middle-aged suburban blob. For Halloween I had the best costume. It was so easy I didn’t have to do anything. I went as a MILF, cleverly disguised as an un-showered, overweight housewife. I was a hit. I just wasn’t sure if they were laughing because it wasn’t true, or because it was juts a funny idea. Whatever. After that, I decided I’d rather not be cleverly disguised any longer. Now I’m doing ‘suicide drills’ on the command of Aron, while he yells that we shouldn’t let the person next to us do better than we are doing. “Don’t be the one who can’t keep up!’ Was he yelling in my direction when he said that? I was panting even in my thoughts.