Mike and I signed up for 24-Hour Fitness memberships this past weekend. Why? Because my ass can't fit into the cute pair of shorts I bought at a huge GAP sale just three weeks ago. And because Mike is surprisingly supportive of a new work-out wardrobe. And because we also got blow-your-mind-awesome coupons from Mike’s cousin, so we only paid a fraction of what we should have paid, and fine, if you’re going to give me a gym membership for practically nothing, I suppose I should actually USE IT.
Monday morning I e-mailed Lauren to tell her if she happened to be in the market for a work-out buddy, I was her girl. We made plans to meet Wednesday night for a kick-boxing class because what better way to fit back into those shorts (that I’ve yet to wear outside of the dressing room) than with a little cardio? And, oh boy, was I excited. It hadn't dawned on me—back then—that I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT OUT OF THE CLASS ALIVE. I was a dancer in high school but what I did in that room was not coordinated or on beat or even human, and my moves were most definitely not the moves of a former dancer. I did a lot of leg jerking and pathetic jabbing and more standing than you’d think possible for a kick-boxing class. J
ody, our peppy little stick of a teacher, kept telling us how awesome! we were all doing, and, Jody, good for you and your tight grasp on positive reinforcement, but awesome? Really? Do you think I buy that, Jody, because for the last five minutes I thought you had turned on a strobe light when, in fact, I was just seeing spots. And also, Jody, we can't all be awesome because you keep having to leave your post at the front of the room in order to stand RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME so I’ll stop flailing and spazzing and instead figure out how to “punch, punch, kick” with the rest of the class. And, just thinking out loud here, but do you think demonstrating right in front of me will do anything at all except make me want to cry? But you look just incredible in your sports bra, I will give you that.
I suppose I should blame Lauren for all this and not just because she kicks (ha) ass at kick-boxing but because she failed to mention this class was TURBO kick-boxing. When I heard this, right before the class started, I turned to dear, sweet, WITHHOLDING Lauren and said, “Turbo? Why did that woman just use the adjective ‘turbo’ when describing the next hour of our lives?” She responded with, “It’s just an adjective. It doesn’t mean anything.” She actually came up with that argument right there on the spot and her quickness stunned me so, I actually walked my (pudgy) butt into that room instead of running in the opposite direction. I will say that kick-boxing is a GENIUS. It makes you concentrate so hard on actually getting the moves down that you have very little time to consider that sharp pain in your chest. Kick-boxing, you sly devil, you. Like all exercise, even the kind I subjected myself to last night, I did feel good after it was over. I felt stronger and, already, thinner and lighter. Although after I weighed myself this morning, I wonder if that lightness was due to my brain’s lack of oxygen because the number on the scale? IT DID NOT WAVER.
All jokes aside (and you'd be frightened at how few exaggerations there actually are in this post), I'll be going back to the kick-boxing class. Not just for blog material and not just because Lauren is one of my most favorite people to spend time with (despite her fails-to-mention-key-pieces-of-information quirk) but because my body deserves to work better than it currently does, and the only way that can happen is if I push myself.
And also because when I got home last night, Mike said to me (after I told him just how awkward I moved it and shook it in class), "I'm still proud of you. Don't give up." And, ah crap, how can I bail on the class after that?
But, I'm fairly sure I'll need some new kick-boxing shoes. If I can't be good at it, I might as well be cute while doing it. And cute is an adjective that means quite a lot.
(Happy two-month anniversary, baby! Go us!)