I joined a gym and get my butt kicked on a regular basis. Don’t worry. I didn’t join a Fight Club, just a normal, everyday gym. Or so I thought.
Imagine my joy when, on my initial tour, I noticed the median age of the gym is well over 55. Perhaps it is the gym’s proximity to a 55 and older community, but I admit I was feeling cocky as I looked around.
No half naked hotties prancing around showing off their tight thighs and buff biceps. I could come in with my “I sit at a computer for 8 hours a day” body and hold my head high. No more self-imposed body shaming.
My tour guide and trainer is young and handsome, but so friendly as he assured me that I would love the members because they are so welcoming and helpful to the newbies. Oh and the classes! So many classes, all day, everyday. Pilates. Yoga. Body Training. etc. etc.
Cue the boys choir “Hallelujah” in my head.
Surely if these seniors could do this, I would crush it.
(Note to self: be humble about crushing it, don’t want to embarrass any of them with my youth and vitality.)
My tour ended with a year paid in full, free tanning sessions and a smile on my face. This would be good. No better than good. It would be GREAT as I reclaimed my fitness and inspired a few seniors along the way.
Fast forward to my first Pilates class... I arrived early and was indeed welcomed by the regulars who assure me a spot up front was where I needed to be so the I could see the leader better.
(I now know it is so they can all smirk at me as I struggle to hold the various poses.)
Well, 15 minutes in I am sweating like a pig in August. I look around as I collapse from another tortuous plank and see that they all are still holding their’s. OK, this is my fist class, it will get better right?
Wrong.
Week after week, I am still the slacker. I no longer hurt for 3 days after, but I am still the only one breaking pose after pose for the entire 45 minutes of hell.
As if that isn’t humiliating enough, I hit an all new low this morning. Today’s ego smack-down came on the back of an Elliptical Glider Thing-y Machine. (Yes, that is the technical name, thank you very much.)
One of the gray haired regulars made it look easy... so, why not? I jumped on and began “gliding” too. (Gliding in the way a manatee in a kayak glides over a dried creek bed) Very early on my thighs began to burn and 5 minutes in, I lost feeling in my biceps.
Meanwhile, this silver fox is about to break orbit as her legs and arms fly back and forth at a blurring pace. Alert OSI! I’ve found Jamie Sommers!
I am awed as she freely chats with other regulars, showing no signs of fatigue, but after a mere 10 minutes, I have had it. I push the STOP button and pout off to the locker room to grab my purse and keys.
Stupid machine. Clearly mine was malfunctioning. Yes, that’s it. I had the broken one.
(Next time you're going down Silver-Fox, you're going down!)
Thusly soothed, I bee-line it to Panera for a Muffie and free Wi-Fi.