Still not following you

After hobbling around like I’d been straddling a horse for a week  – too many reps on the “clacker” machine – I finally did another gym class yesterday. It was called “Sculpt” and the brochure described it as “non-impact”. My sweet lord, I’m glad I didn’t choose an impact one. Being uncoordinated, I’ve spent my adult life avoiding gym classes. But the mums assured me I didn’t need to be co-ordinated for “Sculpt”. Pfffft. Are they on drugs? I knew I was in trouble when the instructor told everyone to collect hand weights, a weight-lifting bar with weights, little clipper things to attach the weights to the bar, a step, bases for the step, an exercise mat and a piece of stretchy rubber (one of the mums hissed at me to “run” so I didn’t miss out on grabbing any bits). And I thought technology was confusing. The class started with unfathomable moves on the step. Up, leg out, down, leg to the side, up for six steps, down for two, point toe, up again, knee in the air … it gave me flashbacks to my confusion in French classes, except with leg movements instead of tenses. But it wasn’t just leg movements. There were accompanying arm waving gestures. Having never mastered the pat-the-head/rub-the-belly party trick, I just flailed around aimlessly and vowed to get a spot right at the back next time. And there will be a next time. Even if it kills me. (I feel a bit like I’m dying right now. Everything hurts. So very much.) I was in awe of all those bodies in black lycra. Everyone looked amazing, even the 60-year-olds. And the tight little butts on the twentysomethings, they made me want to vomit with envy. Being tight in less attractive ways, I didn’t pay $200 for 28 days gym membership for nuthin’. Drop-a-dress-size-for-Hawaii boot camp, here I come.