It’s been awhile since I’ve posted here, but this afternoon, as I sat at my desk smearing sriracha on seaweed, I thought, Isn’t it about time I addressed my strangeness again?
In fact, it is. You see, not only have I spent the last 45 minutes nonchalantly making little, spiced seaweed sandwiches at my desk, but I’m also joining a couple of friends at a cardiobarre class after work.
For those of you who have never heard of cardiobarre, let me explain. It’s a workout class that pulls techniques from dance, like ballet, to give you beautiful dancer bodies. Now, when people picture the participants in these classes, they generally imagine well-dressed women with long lean muscles pointing their toes and flexing their abs of steel.
As you can imagine, this is not quite the look I have.
Not only do I usually show up for class with a hangover still very present in my body, but I also have not yet invested in workout clothing that is up to the standards of most of these women. Instead, I show up a lá ‘90s middle schoolers in an oversized t-shirt and bike shorts, and though the kids from Saved by the Bell may approve, let me tell you, these Hayes Valley folk do not.
So I’m usually off to a pretty great start before class has even started…
Now, let’s talk about the actual class and what I’m looking forward to most about the one tonight.
Picture yourself in a room lined with mirrors so that you can’t possibly think for a moment that you’re doing any of the moves right. There’s actual proof that you’re failing from every angle! And I mean every angle…
There are moments when I look up, sweat sticking my flyaways to the sides of my face so that I am sporting a nice long pair of sideburns, and I see this strange curve to my body in the corner mirror that I think MUST be some sort of growth. So I freak out and drop the leg that I have suspended in the air (though not nearly at the place it should be) only to find that no, it was not a growth. It’s just what happens when my body meets gravity… and that left corner mirror gives me a excellent view of this newfound phenomenon.
There are, of course, also gigantic floor-to-ceiling glass windows facing the street so that all the passerby can admire as you squat down into what should be a plie but instead looks like an injured toad trying to hop.
Next, we’re asked to do things like lift our legs in repeated series and angles. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Well, that’s where you’d be wrong. Lifting your leg is fucking hard!
Staring into the mirror, you expect to see your toes make it at least to your shoulders, but instead, you discover that your toes are barely making it a foot off the ground. So you try and lift your leg higher, but find that you’re simply crunching down from your waist. So rather than having your leg lift up as your abs contract, you’re simply lowering your top half down in a desperate attempt to bring the two together.
Let me tell you something. That’s not as effective…
Okay, so by now you basically understand the total humiliation I willingly endure in order to con myself into thinking that I’m getting back into shape. But it doesn’t end there!
The final straw that breaks the camel’s back is that as part of the beginner class, I am with none other than the very chic, ultra cool pregnant women who take these classes like they take prenatal vitamins. They’re in there with their ribbed tank tops and stretchy pants, looking flawless—while I try not to make too many grunting noises or fart when we plie.
But at the end of class when the pain is gone, and I’m feeling pretty darn pleased myself for not throwing up, I let my anger at these Super Women fade and just enjoy the fact that while they will probably drink sparkling water and be beautiful in a couple of hours, I will be counteracting everything I just did with a big bottle of wine or beer and a donut. #Fitspo AMIRIGHT?
Cheers everyone. I’ve missed you.