The Gym

I'm feeling better today. Never underestimate the benefit of sweating out one's frustrations.

Last night, it was back to the gym again for another Bodypump class. I can safely say that I HATE squats. And lunges are nothing short of torture. To make matters worse, there is this cute, pixie-like blonde in our class who has the perfect ass end and she sails through the sets without making any of the ugly faces that the rest of us slobs do. AND, she uses double the weights that I put on my own bar. Of course, she is in much better condition and has obviously been doing it longer than I have but she could hide behind a light pole if you turned her sideways. I just can't figure out how something that petite can lift all that weight. I am jealous.

I have also noted another woman. She is sixty something with perfectly styled hair and flawless make up. As far as I can tell (and I do scrutinize), she hasn't had any work done. Her forehead moves, she has lots of laugh lines and her eyebrows don't have to be plucked from above her head. She is in remarkable shape. She wore spandex infused yoga pants last night and there was nary a cellulite dimple in sight. When we did our bicep set, she piled on more weight than most of the people in the class. As I struggled through the last filthy minute of curls, adjusting my feet and arching my back, she stood there poised, firm and strong with perfect form. I was awed.

I do have to mention the men in the class. Each one of them is his own squirrely mess of dork and macho bravado. I'm not sure but I think the men are subconsciously overwhelmed by the amount of estrogen floating in the air so they compensate by switching into high school jock mode.

One guy chats up several women in the class, including the instructor. He is noisy, obtrusive and not nearly as good looking as he tells himself. His flirting is awkward and full of adolescent humour. I feel sorry for this guy. If he didn't try so hard to be funny, he might actually be charming and able to get himself laid every once in a while. He's really the only regular besides my husband. Other men come into the class, load their bars up with gobs of plates, struggle to keep their form through 55 minutes of hell, eyes bulging in effort and then walk out the door, legs shaking, never to return. Like all first timers (myself included), they always underestimate how hard it is to aerobically lift weights and use far too much. By the end of class, they are quivering from head to toe like a tub full of jello. I want to reach out to them with a tube of BenGay and some ibuprofen and tell them to be grateful that they pee standing up.

The best part about Bodypump besides the obvious physical benefit is the instructor. She's awesome. She's a real woman with real curves and an admitted appetite for American beer. She owns a preschool, teaches two fitness classes six days of the week and has a husband and children. She despises lunges as much as the rest of us do and her face screws up with the same effort reflected in all of ours. She loves junk food and admits that if she ate better, she'd be skinny. She's just oozes goodwill. I relate to this woman. She inspires me.

The truth is that I am really enjoying the regular exercise again. It doesn't feel much like work to me. I am sleeping better, my mind is sharper and the strangest side effect is that I'm not craving sweets. If I were, I'd indulge because I'm a calorie burning fool these days but I have a distinct apathy towards dessert.

Bread, on the other hand...