Courtesy: The Centre
I honestly thought this would be a great idea. Physical activity at any age is a good thing, isn’t it?
Well, in my case it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
The “co-ed” class was held at a local YMCA in Tennessee. And there was not much to be said for it being an actual “co-ed” class because I was the only “ed” on the warm-up mats. False advertising? You bet your sweet BMI.
My plan was to go to this aerobics class (aka huff and puff) in the morning, three days a week, and then drive on in to work at the television station. The other two mornings per week found me sprawled out on the racket ball court in an attempt to beat fellow photog Terry.
I showed up for the first class five minutes early. I am a firm believer that five minutes early equals being on time. I soon discovered this would be the only firm thing about me.
Poking my head in the room at the Y, I noticed a couple of things: there were no other guys ready to sweat themselves silly, and there was no room in the back row for an Ehm. Are you kidding me?
Nope.
There were several ladies checking out the new guy in the spandex. Just kidding. I wore basketball shorts and a dry T-shirt. But the looks on their faces said it all: I was a dead man walking.
Reluctantly making my way to the enormous gap in the front row, I looked around and realized being the center of attention because you are rich, famous, or devilishly handsome is good. Being the center of attention merely because you own the hairiest armpits in a room full of big haired, living in the ‘80s, grits-cooking women is bad.
No sooner had my girth settled down and in, than the instructor jogged in smiling. Jogged in? Smiling?
“Whoo-hoo!”
“Whoo-hoo!” came the response. This had to be a spandex-wearing cult.
“Ready to workout!” Nope, I thought. But before I realized it was a statement and not a question, the okra eaters yelled, “Whoo-hoo!”
Oh, gosh. I’m gonna die in a room full of multi-colored Cachet connoisseurs
The music started and folks to my left and right threw it into gear. Being new to this sort of torture, I just stood there, mouth ajar. A woman promptly ran into me.
Wham!
“Sorry.” The kind lady just smiled and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Nope. Not. Gonna. Happen.
While the veterans were busy swinging their arms to the left, yours truly swung his to the right. Kick to the left and I was the Rockette to the right.
“Feel the burn!”
Burn? No. But I believe I felt my shorts and hammies tear though. I looked down at my shoes and sweat streamed down my brow, off my nose, and straight to the floor.
Plop.
“Keep moving!”
“Whoo-hoo!”
Clap, step, clap, step. Arm swing here, arm swing there. If only the guys at Channel 12 could see me now.
An hour is comprised of 60 minutes. A minute is made up of 60 seconds. What does this mathematical equation have to do with me being a dope by signing up for an aerobics class? Easy. It was THE longest hour I’d ever endured!
Finally—and I do mean f-i-n-a-l-l-y—the class finished, and I staggered to my car. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?
I am no quitter, so I dragged my carcass to the next meeting of the Clan of Whoo-Hoo. I dragged it there early and found a nice spot on the back wall.
Perfect.
The second hand hit 12, and into the room entered someone I had never seen before.
“Oh, I remember this lady. She is good. Works everyone out hard.”
I glanced to my right and noticed a fit woman with an enormous grin on her face.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She’s the rubber band lady from the other class. We’ve had her before and she is great!”
Oh, gosh. The gluteus twins, Maximus and Minimus, were just about ready to revolt.
“Okay, class. Your instructor is out sick today, so I am taking over. Come on up, grab a band, and
we’ll get started.”
I was hoping there wouldn’t be enough bands to go around, but the mean woman obviously planned ahead.
“Everyone lie on your side.”
“Whoo-hoo!”
“Now, while lying on your side, put the band around the outside of your ankles, and slowly stretch, pulling your ankles and knees apart.”
“Whoo-hoo!”
“Ahhhhh!”
Everyone in the joint turned and looked at where that awful noise had come from. Soon every eye was on me. What in the name of physical fitness was this Whoo Hoo’er trying to pull? If I wanted an “exercise” class that simulated childbirth, I am sure I could have found one to sign up for.
“Sorry. I’ve never tried that before.”
Medic. Medic. Medic.
“Whoo-hoo!”
