Saturday, February 25, 2017

are you my workout?


"so, you're just not going?"
my mother has mastered the ability to say "i'm not mad, i'm just disappointed" during every single conversation we have, without actually saying the words.
"no, not after yesterday. i felt like an idiot out there," i whined, pulling the covers over my eyes as i remembered the horrific events of my first day of summer field hockey camp.

okay, so nothing particularly bad even happened. i was just miserable, sweaty, and had no clue what the hell i was doing. i'm not sure exactly what possessed me to sign up, considering I'd never played a day of field hockey in my life, but i think it was the name: cave girl. at 15 years old, i was still trying to find my post-middle school identity, and anything i could do to make myself seem more tough and intimidating to the abercrombie-wearing, lacrosse-playing mean girls that made eighth-grade gym class a living hell was extremely appealing to me.

however, my newfound field hockey-playing persona didn't stick. it joined my brief elementary school softball stint (which ended because i was too busy collecting rocks on the field to catch the ball), and those bruise-inducing few months as a flyer for the church cheerleading squad -- they kept dropping me! -- in the graveyard of abandoned sports.  some people are serial daters, some people are serial killers. i'm a serial exerciser. sorry, i guess the correct term would actually be serial exercise dabbler.
the only constant that remained over the years was dance. from age four, i pirouetted, tapped, leaped, twerked, or some combination of those things on a regular basis, taking as many classes as I could handle and spending most weeknights in high school practicing with the dance team or performing during halftime at basketball games.
yet, much like the career of a professional ballerina, the window of opportunity to shake your groove thang in a controlled environment begins closing rapidly after you turn, like, 20, so here i am again. i've searched and searched for something that comes close to the exhilaration i feel when i stick a new piece of choreography and sync up perfectly with my fellow classmates, to no avail.
the music at jazzercise was surprisingly hip, considering that i was the youngest person in the class by a good 25 years. unfortunately, the moves were more ho-hum than hip-hop, and i think i may have offended some of the sweet octogenarians with my aggressive grapevines and plies. i just can't help myself when an usher remix comes on, man. then, i threw myself into another craze, something called "turbokick." it was inexplicably held in a pole-dancing studio that proved extremely distracting, and incorporated far too many push-ups, burpees, and actual exercise for my taste.

a while back, a coworker dragged me to her "pure barre" class. i have to admit, i really had high hopes for this one based solely on the name. a workout that utilized the ballet barre had to be perfect for me, right? wrong. there were no elegant arabesques, dainty chĂȘne turns, or graceful across-the-floor work. there was, however, a cult leader of a teacher that kept using foreign words like "tucking" and "seatwork" as she reprimanded me for not doing them, or doing them, or doing them wrong. i still have absolutely no idea and don't really give a tuck. the struggle, as they say, could not have been more real. every day for the next week, i silently cursed everyone involved in the evening of october 21, 2015 as i hobbled to and from my cubicle and my car, indescribably sore and full of pure rage for pure barre.

to calm down and get some clarity or whatever, i turned to yoga. i desperately wanted to like it, but i think my chi's out of wack because i just could not get it under control long enough to stop whispering to the women on either side of me about how lame the new-age music was. i said namaste, and then waved adios, to downward dogs and children's poses for good.
needless to say, the quest for my perfect workout continues. for now, i burn most of my calories in the best way my 30-year-old self can: twisting and shouting, doing the electric slide, and kicking up my heels to "cotton eye joe" in a fancy cocktail dress, glass of wine in hand. at least i don't have long to wait before wedding season rolls around again.

No comments:

Post a Comment