Power knee! Arms up!
My neighbor invited me to attend step aerobics with her. I've been having some trouble managing my stress levels (not to mention my weight), so I thought maybe a good workout would help. That is not to say I'm sedentary; I walk the dogs all the time, do sit-ups, ride my bike, etc. But I very seldom do a hardcore, face-turns-red sort of workout. I'm a delicate flower and sweat does not become me. You know how it is.
When P and I still lived in Virginia, I used to attend step aerobics classes that were held in the community center of our apartment complex. The majority of the people who lived in the complex were stationed at Fort Belvoir. Most of the time, I was the only white girl in the class. The racial difference didn't bother me at all, but let me just say that those girls could rock a beat. I had to count the steps (sometimes aloud) to keep up whereas the women of color had natural rhythm. But, I loved the class nonetheless.
When we moved away, I started taking step classes at the Y as soon as we were settled in. I met a 72-year-old lady in the class, who became my first friend after the move. Not only was she 72, she was also a chain smoker (until later, when a doctor slapped a patch on her and told her to knock it off), but that goes to show you that the class was not all that tough. Eventually, though, a baby came along and our gym membership was dropped (kids, they ain't cheap). So, I hadn't taken a class in years when my neighbor invited me to her gym. I was game, but wary.
The instructor (let's just call her Satan's concubine), kicked my ass with her boot camp-style routines. Yesterday was the third class I attended and it was actually a different instructor than the first two times, but with their rock-hard abs and perky attitudes, they are pretty much interchangeable. The second one actually CHEWED GUM through the entire workout, while I gasped for air like a dying lake trout.
One second we were doing double-squats and the next we were doing some elaborate step routine that includes something called the "six point tap." I cannot, as it turns out, count to six. We finished the hour by doing unspeakable things to our abdominal muscles. I'm fairly certain that many of the moves we were required to do . . . are specifically and explicitly banned under the terms of the Geneva Convention.
The kicker is that it seems as though, when I hop on the scale the morning after class, my weight should have dropped significantly. By double digits even. But alas, usually I've even managed to gain a half pound. I guess I'm just lucky that way.
I'll keep it up as long as my neighbor continues to let me be a guest under her gym membership. And I'll continue to take the instructor's name in vain. Seriously, though, one more "get lower!" on the squats and I'm keying her car on my way out.
When P and I still lived in Virginia, I used to attend step aerobics classes that were held in the community center of our apartment complex. The majority of the people who lived in the complex were stationed at Fort Belvoir. Most of the time, I was the only white girl in the class. The racial difference didn't bother me at all, but let me just say that those girls could rock a beat. I had to count the steps (sometimes aloud) to keep up whereas the women of color had natural rhythm. But, I loved the class nonetheless.
When we moved away, I started taking step classes at the Y as soon as we were settled in. I met a 72-year-old lady in the class, who became my first friend after the move. Not only was she 72, she was also a chain smoker (until later, when a doctor slapped a patch on her and told her to knock it off), but that goes to show you that the class was not all that tough. Eventually, though, a baby came along and our gym membership was dropped (kids, they ain't cheap). So, I hadn't taken a class in years when my neighbor invited me to her gym. I was game, but wary.
The instructor (let's just call her Satan's concubine), kicked my ass with her boot camp-style routines. Yesterday was the third class I attended and it was actually a different instructor than the first two times, but with their rock-hard abs and perky attitudes, they are pretty much interchangeable. The second one actually CHEWED GUM through the entire workout, while I gasped for air like a dying lake trout.
One second we were doing double-squats and the next we were doing some elaborate step routine that includes something called the "six point tap." I cannot, as it turns out, count to six. We finished the hour by doing unspeakable things to our abdominal muscles. I'm fairly certain that many of the moves we were required to do . . . are specifically and explicitly banned under the terms of the Geneva Convention.
The kicker is that it seems as though, when I hop on the scale the morning after class, my weight should have dropped significantly. By double digits even. But alas, usually I've even managed to gain a half pound. I guess I'm just lucky that way.
I'll keep it up as long as my neighbor continues to let me be a guest under her gym membership. And I'll continue to take the instructor's name in vain. Seriously, though, one more "get lower!" on the squats and I'm keying her car on my way out.
Comments
Seriously though, don't weigh yourself the morning after a brutal workout. It messes with your water retention and the numbers will make you want to cry.
I hate aerobics instructors, and PE teachers. I don't believe they have souls.