Raising the Barre

My gym is now open 24 hours a day. 

Now if I’m going to be completely honest, it’s been about 17,520 hours (or 730 days) since I’ve been to said gym.

There are almost as many reasons why:

• I have a son with multiple chronic illnesses.
• I suffer chronic pain myself.
• I also have a teenage daughter with a demanding extra curricula activity schedule.
• Plus a husband who does shift work.
• And now 2 new furry family members (more on those at another time).
•  I now work fulltime, with a daily commute of 3 hours round trip, up to 6 days a week.
• I am basically broke.
• I am permanently exhausted.
• Plus, up until now, the gym hours did not synchronise with my schedule of spare time (whatever that is).

Nonetheless this morning, on my 1 day off in 13, I awoke at my regular hour of stupid o’clock, up before the birds, the dogs, and the rest of my family.

In my enthusiasm (or perhaps delirium) I decided that it was about time I went back to the gym, and today was the best time to do it.

So I dug out my gym bag, struggled into a pair of tights (which were by definition and demeanour quite tight), borrowed my girlchild’s water bottle and headed for the home of pain and torture, otherwise known as my fitness club.

After finding out with some delight my membership card still scanned and let me past the gates guarded by electronics, only to find no human guardian waiting on the other side, I walked confidently into the workout room, with hope in my heart that I could in fact make it through a work out.

I was the first one there, aside from the instructor, and was relatively hopeful that it being so early on a Sunday morning, there would be more people worshipping at the altar of their chosen religion, or still asleep, and there would be few people to see my attempt at getting fit (because it’s worked so well in the past for me as evidenced here, and also here)

Unfortunately, by the time I checked in with the trainer and discussed both my physical difficulties and desire to overcome them, the room had filled, and there were any number of fit looking females taking up position at the Barre.  Here I should mention that this particular class I was venturing into was somewhat scarily entitled Barre Attack, and involved the trainer attacking our muscles with the use of a good old fashioned ballet barre.

She said it was best for me to grab a spot at the back of the room so I could see her in the reflection while also keeping an eye on myself, to check I was doing it right. Now I don’t like looking at myself in a mirror at the best of times, let alone hot and sweaty and ridiculously uncoordinated both physically and fashion-wise (yes, I did indeed notice after looking at my reflection that my ensemble was nowhere near as on-trend as the others in the room). 

It was even worse when the trainer declared it was a barefoot class, and I was aware as soon as I took my shoes off, of just how long I’ve left my toenail polish on (it was like a reverse French pedi just so you know, with the tips of my toes showing a mere shadow of colour, with the rest of my nail the shade of white only my bare skin seems to bear).

At this point I also realised the error of my ways leaving my ankle brace at home when she declared it was ‘leg day’ and the majority of the workout would be working on our lower extremities. With bonus ball work. What joy.

And so it begins...

I was almost over my shock of confronting myself in the mirror in such a brightly lit room when she asked if we had warmed up enough to put the fans on, “Yes” I either gasped or rasped, with both my breath and my voice already giving up the ghost.  I then noticed in my haste to be as close to the door as possible in order to make a hasty escape if necessary, I was nowhere near a fan … leaving me looking longingly at the breeze blowing straight over my head, and onto every other person in the room except me.

Once we’d warmed up (darn near overheated in my case) she instructed us to put our left side to the Barre. I was happy with this instruction as it meant I was at the back of the row and able to watch the others carry out the movements, as I still had no clue about the full range of techniques we were attacking at the barre.  Halfway through the pliés my legs were pleading to stop the torture, and it was with all the grace of a dying swan (literally not classically speaking) I tried to keep up with the class to my front.

When she then turned us all around to face the opposite side I realised the entire class was now facing my backside, and my wobbly attempts at the kick-and-curtsey combo were also in full view.  While the instructor reminded us that the barre was there for support if needed, and most of the class were gracefully holding their arms in beautiful imitations of First and Fifth positions whilst hoisting the ball above their heads, I was managing a mangled Third with extreme barre-o-metric pressure as I hung onto it for dear life for fear of falling over on my unsteady feet.  Thankfully I could hear no laughter over the sound of my own ragged breathing.  I couldn't believe it when she said it was good to see us still smiling, while seemingly looking straight at me - clearly she mistook my grimace for a grin.

After a few more minutes of my inadequate inelegance, the trainer said it was time to go to the floor. “Sweet relief, it’s cool down time” thought both my legs and I in agreement, until she decided there was more torture to endure.  I swear if my legs weren’t shaking so much I would’ve burst the ball I was gripping the thing so tight in my state of tension, as it was it was so sweaty by this stage it’s a miracle the thing didn’t squeeze out and shoot across the room.

I can’t even recall what went on for the remainder of the class itself, as I fear I had an out-of-body experience; anything to not experience the pain my body was in.

At least I wasn’t alone, and the others who had put in even harder yards than I had, given their experience and fitness level, appeared to be equally exhausted.

It wasn’t until a random cockroach crawled out from behind the mirror and scuttled across the floor (thankfully nowhere near me, I’ve had my share of those creepy crawly critters thankyou) that we all found our energy reserve and leaped up away from the thing; the instructor included, so she concluded the class.

I had survived my return to the gym.

I wasn’t barred from the Barre!

I even resisted to urge to attack some sugar on my way home.

And if my legs ever forgive me, I might even make it back for an encore performance next weekend.

Jx

©22 January 2017

The Naked Truth

I don’t know about others, but if there ever was 4 little words that worried me it’s: “Have you lost weight?”

Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”

Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).

Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!

One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.

I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.

Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?

Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).

And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!

So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.

See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.

And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.

Jx
©2010