9.30 every friday morning is marked on my calendar with the following: BUTT KICK CARDIO CLASS!!! A few months ago, one of my mommy-friends suggested that I attend the class, with my "flexible schedule and all". Hey, why not, I mean, I go to the Y regularly, I walk Mr. Darcy like my life depended on it, I did Billy Blanks videos 1, 2 and 3 in college - what's another Friday morning class? So I arrived at the Y as per my usual five-minute-late self, walked into the gym, and took a place in the back row.
I couldn't even see the instructor, but I could sort of hear her. What I could see was a look of mean determination on the face of every man and (let's be honest) woman in that room - and I was not up to par, to say the least. Thoughts of Tae-bo are dancing through my head, as I'm remembering how GOOD I was at doing the video with three other girls in our 9 x 12 dorm room in Tinglestad. So what's this class got on me? Everything. Everything.
I somehow made it through the first 45 minutes, a bit red-faced and sweaty, and started patting myself and my teammates on the back: good job, good job. "RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" The instructor barks out commands, and quickly everyone gets in formation and starts running laps around the gym. Okay, so maybe this is what we do at the end of Cardio-Kickboxing, I thought to myself, nodding my head of approval to every person I pass, and am subsequently passed by.
Little do I know, but I've entered part two of what I've affectionately come to refer as the BUTT KICK CARDIO CLASS (exclamation points) - because we'd started in on boot camp. Of course. What hour and a half interval wouldn't be complete without an added 45 minutes of boot camp?
The instructor continued to bark. I started to lag, lag, lag behind as I realized that I'd about reached my game at the height of my jab-jab-kick combination. "GET TO THE WALL!!" she screams. So get I got. And she begins to demonstrate these push-ups that were not your normal push-ups, but with your hands on the ground your feet got up ON the wall. So I'm trying my hardest, but every time my feet go up, my hands start slowly sliding forward - with the sweat from the previous hour and 15 minutes of ridiculousness. The instructor comes up to me: "you're not doing it right." "really?" (I suppose I didn't sound so sarcastic at that moment, though my heart wanted to deal her one of those blows she taught me how to throw just an hour earlier). "You have to go like this..." And she begins to do her non-sweaty hand my-whole-body's-like-a-feather push-up against the wall. I looked at her and sneered.
Soon the class was over. Soon I was walking out of there drippier than the faucet that drives you crazy when you're trying to fall asleep. And I vowed never to unleash another 15,000 calories on that Friday morning again.
But I found myself there this morning.
And I found myself kicking butt.
And I was still glaring at the instructor who's able to show me up like there's no tomorrow with her gravity-defying push-ups.
But I also walked out right as the ants began to march around the gym in their running position. I think I won.