Ow. If my back could speak, the air would be “blue.” Fallout from the second weight aerobics class yesterday.
The Tweedles still do 45 minutes this morning . . . “treading” (plodding?) alongside Wonder Woman of the elliptical, the two muscle-men lugging huge barbells around, and a 90-lb. doctor’s bride, riding the bike like she is escaping dragons . . .
Husband chats up the muscle-men, discovering that one works in town for the sheriff’s department . . . which causes Farmer Tweedle, a little later, to buckle his seatbelt, in the truck, for the first time in his life. . . and then he barks at me to buckle up immediately, as the sheriff’s deputy may be watching. I always buckle up, but I make a grand show of it this morning.
We leave tomorrow for a trip to see the grandchildren. I’ll miss the next weight aerobics class. If my back could speak, it would sob for joy.
I had an epiphany during my 5:45 a.m. body sculpting class this week. It's taught by a very athletic, energetic 26-year-old who puts us through all sorts of complicated combination moves. It's a great workout for those who can actually DO this stuff, which most of my early morning classmates can. But about the only thing I could do in this past Wednesday's lineup of torture was stand and watch. I can't do push-ups because my right wrist won't flex after breaking it a few years back... couldn't do the ab exercise which required balancing on a butt still bruised from having slipped on the ice and landed smack on the behind a few days earlier... the knees give out when I try step-ups with weights... can't do jumping jacks because my 60-year-old post-partum bladder objects... And I can't even begin to describe all the ways I cannot manage the exercises our instructor blithely calls "The Man-Maker" and "The Turkish Get-Up." Time to accept reality, retire to the relative safety of the treadmill, and leave the body sculpting to the young 'uns.
ReplyDelete