Last week I decided to try fitness. After all, we were fasting entertainment and the only other option was cleaning the house. Also, I have noticed an alarming trend in all my jeans, suddenly switching from normal low-rise jeans that a cool person would wear to a fairly tight, muffin-top inducing mom jean, and by suddenly I mean over a 6 month period. And now we’re approaching swimsuit season and my only options have become fleeing to a nice Muslim country where people can wear clothes, or to face the problem head-on. (“What about loving you for you?” you ask. That is technically another option, but I really also want to look good in a swimsuit that no one will ever see because of my modesty tee and board shorts. Just roll with me.)
I’ve weighed options over the last months. I’ll set up a TV by my treadmill! I thought. But then I remembered that I hate running more than I hate the devil, and also daytime TV stinks. I’ll run in the neighborhood, I thought. But then I remembered that I hate running and also I hate nature. Eventually I decided to try every class at the YMCA. So that’s what I did last week. Technically I have not tried cycling, Zumba or Pilates yet, and I don’t know that I will.
Now, you might be familiar with gyms on sitcoms and rom-coms where attractive people with just one big secret meet each other and sweat prettily in spandex stretched over their muscled 20-something bodies. That’s not exactly the scene at our local Y. For one thing, the median age is about 70. “Active Older Adults” they call ’em, and those grannies can power walk something fierce. I don’t mind this crowd a bit. In fact, I feel kinda like a PYT.
I did interval training, which is basically aerobics with a modern facelift, and I was very terrible at it, because there’s a lot of hand to the right but leg to the left and by the time I figure out which side is right, the octogenarians are already walking backwards and stepping perkily up and down from risers. The other days I did things I was a little better at, like picking up stuff and jumping jacks and such. Friday, I did yoga and I was highly amused at myself but yoga is no time for jokes, because Buddha probably frowned upon gigglers. I did like how stretched I felt after the class. Planning on going back because I, like many of my senior comrades, have a little bit of a hunchback and I heard rumors that yoga might help out the ol’ posture.
Also I ate good, for me, which might still be somebody else’s very worst week, but I don’t care so much about that. Will I sustain all this productivity now that I have the internet again? Time will tell.