My last workout nearly sent me into a panic attack, so I decided it was time for a new gym. This one has classes, towels, and a locker room where I don’t accidentally bump into someone’s sweaty behind.
Since I am the worst when it comes to working out, I decided that I am going to take full advantage of these classes. I dream of being one of those girls who declines after-work drinks because “I never miss a Zumba class!”
Tuesday I tried a spin class.
I should let you know here that I have never before participated in an exercise class. Organized exercise has not really been my thing. Like I got cut from my high school soccer team. The punchline: we had a “no cut” policy. Zing! And aside from a Winterim “yoga” class during my Atlanta Girls’ School days (which was really nothing more than breathing, meditating about my “feelings,” and napping on a mat for 45 minutes), I stick to solo work outs on the elliptical.
It shouldn’t surprise me then that Tuesday’s spin class NEARLY KILLED ME. Not only was I oblivious to the spin jargon the instructor was screaming at us, but I was completely shown up by the skinny exercise goddesses in my class. Here I was—barely able to stay on my bike, my legs protesting this foreign and obscene level of exertion—and these girls were just breezing along, probably thinking “I never miss a spin class!”
This is the picture on the gym’s website. This is what those girls looked like. I will spare you an image of my sweaty, defeated body.
Anyway, I did survive. But barely. Today I opted for a class called “Ab Fab,” which is a deceptive title because there was nothing “fab” about it. I basically spent the entire 30 minutes flopping around on my mat and cursing every chicken finger I ever ate.
Thankfully the girl next to me was just as elegant. Perhaps we’ll become friends.