“But what if I refuse to hear those numbers?”
“Uh… really? No one’s ever done that before…”
He summed up their overall impressions for me though and the results pointed to just a general flabby sloth which in no way surprised me. I really didn’t hate the training sessions either, (although I could barely sit on the toilet for two days after so many squats). I just don’t see myself shelling out a bunch of money for them. What I have been doing is getting on the elliptical and when you can space out to a sitcom for a half hour, it’s really not bad at all. Ideally this would happen two or three times a week, but let’s not get crazy here. If I make it to the elliptical once a week and then to an exercise class once, I’m extraordinarily proud of myself. As for the rest of the week? That’s what mall-walking is for. I try to convince myself that this all falls under the category of "me time", when I devote a moment to the care of myself, but that line of logic is hard when "me-time" could also mean taking some time away from the gym to say, shop or buy a hot chocolate. "Me time" can just be interpreted in so many different ways.
In an effort to keep my mind open and try new things, I decided to try Zumba! I had been meaning to try it for a long time, but again, that registered trademark exclamation point really turned me off. Finally, a friend said she would go with me to my first class. Much of my Zumba! experience with friends so far is composed of my making incredulous faces into the mirror at them as I stumble through the choreography. It turns out several years of “Movement for Singers” classes have still left me with a surprisingly poor ability to follow and remember sequences, so I flail about enthusiastically until I can get back into the swing of things. Our smiley instructor seems to think any manner of ills can be made up for with enthusiasm, and if that gets my heart rate up, so be it.
Now, I had heard up until this point that Zumba is quite fun in a sexy way, but I’ve discovered it’s sort of the 50 Shades of Grey of exercise classes. This is to say that it seems like Zumba is sexy if you’re a 50 year old housewife. It’s all about white people looking dorky as they wiggle their hips to a track of Latin remixes. And I’m certainly not above 50 year old housewives— most of them are probably in way better shape than I am anyway. (I will admit to being above reading poorly written smut though.) I’m sure there are instructors out there who can channel Patrick Swayze and make Zumba fiery, but there would still be people like me following along, trying in vain to channel their inner Latinas.
Now, as for gym clothes, I believe it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who warned to distrust any institution which requires the purchase of new clothes. And in this case, I agree with him. I just really hate the idea that I have to buy special ankle socks to go to the gym, which are not useful for any other purpose in our chilly New England climate. My organic leggings with the holes in them and my pajama tops however, were not going to cut it any longer. I had to suck it up and go to Marshalls for some inexpensive gym threads. It is amazing how I really believed that this wardrobe update might be the key to my confidence in those full-length mirrors, but I assure you, I look just as ridiculous in my coordinated top and pants as I do in anything else.
Perhaps in a few months, when I know what I’m doing a bit more, I can stop laughing at my own dance moves… but I doubt it. What keeps me going on a party dance floor is my unabashed confidence in my ability to shake it to late 90’s hip hop, dim lights, and not a lot else. I still remember the day when our movement teacher paused with trepidation before telling me that for my second year in grad school, she was placing me in the beginning class again. Someone else might have been shocked or deflated but not I. No hard feelings— I always had fun just the same.
He summed up their overall impressions for me though and the results pointed to just a general flabby sloth which in no way surprised me. I really didn’t hate the training sessions either, (although I could barely sit on the toilet for two days after so many squats). I just don’t see myself shelling out a bunch of money for them. What I have been doing is getting on the elliptical and when you can space out to a sitcom for a half hour, it’s really not bad at all. Ideally this would happen two or three times a week, but let’s not get crazy here. If I make it to the elliptical once a week and then to an exercise class once, I’m extraordinarily proud of myself. As for the rest of the week? That’s what mall-walking is for. I try to convince myself that this all falls under the category of "me time", when I devote a moment to the care of myself, but that line of logic is hard when "me-time" could also mean taking some time away from the gym to say, shop or buy a hot chocolate. "Me time" can just be interpreted in so many different ways.
In an effort to keep my mind open and try new things, I decided to try Zumba! I had been meaning to try it for a long time, but again, that registered trademark exclamation point really turned me off. Finally, a friend said she would go with me to my first class. Much of my Zumba! experience with friends so far is composed of my making incredulous faces into the mirror at them as I stumble through the choreography. It turns out several years of “Movement for Singers” classes have still left me with a surprisingly poor ability to follow and remember sequences, so I flail about enthusiastically until I can get back into the swing of things. Our smiley instructor seems to think any manner of ills can be made up for with enthusiasm, and if that gets my heart rate up, so be it.
Now, I had heard up until this point that Zumba is quite fun in a sexy way, but I’ve discovered it’s sort of the 50 Shades of Grey of exercise classes. This is to say that it seems like Zumba is sexy if you’re a 50 year old housewife. It’s all about white people looking dorky as they wiggle their hips to a track of Latin remixes. And I’m certainly not above 50 year old housewives— most of them are probably in way better shape than I am anyway. (I will admit to being above reading poorly written smut though.) I’m sure there are instructors out there who can channel Patrick Swayze and make Zumba fiery, but there would still be people like me following along, trying in vain to channel their inner Latinas.
Now, as for gym clothes, I believe it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who warned to distrust any institution which requires the purchase of new clothes. And in this case, I agree with him. I just really hate the idea that I have to buy special ankle socks to go to the gym, which are not useful for any other purpose in our chilly New England climate. My organic leggings with the holes in them and my pajama tops however, were not going to cut it any longer. I had to suck it up and go to Marshalls for some inexpensive gym threads. It is amazing how I really believed that this wardrobe update might be the key to my confidence in those full-length mirrors, but I assure you, I look just as ridiculous in my coordinated top and pants as I do in anything else.
Perhaps in a few months, when I know what I’m doing a bit more, I can stop laughing at my own dance moves… but I doubt it. What keeps me going on a party dance floor is my unabashed confidence in my ability to shake it to late 90’s hip hop, dim lights, and not a lot else. I still remember the day when our movement teacher paused with trepidation before telling me that for my second year in grad school, she was placing me in the beginning class again. Someone else might have been shocked or deflated but not I. No hard feelings— I always had fun just the same.
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