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

Kicking Back

For the past 2 years or so I have been in a kind of Fitness Protection Program- whereby I was protecting myself from any further pain by simply avoiding the punishment of a workout.

I know they say 'No pain, No gain', however I have been in so much pain that there wasn't anything to gain from going to the gym and putting myself through it.

But I couldn't justify keeping my gym membership going unless I was going to the gym. For something other than saunas at any rate. So I checked out the program for something to ease myself back into it, and hopefully start strengthening and toning again.

Before the surgical mishap, and after an inauspicious start to my yoga career, I was finally getting the hang of it and didn't overbalance or embarrass myself anywhere near as much as I used to. I even felt better for it.  And just quietly, liked the look of my yoga pants too.

But after almost 2 years away from exercise equipment of any kind, it was with great fear and trepidation that I set foot back in the gym.

Yogalates promised to provide a good mix of both Yoga and Pilates and proposed that even beginners could carry out the routine.

Having been a copywriter myself for many years, I know only too well that the product doesn't always live up to the promotion. And so it was with my first foray into Yogalates.

The first hurdle was getting into my tights, after so long a break. Sad to say sitting on the couch doesn't cut it for keeping one in shape. (Unless of course the shape is a sphere. It's plenty good for that.)

I was also thankful that I chose to attend this class alone, and didn't phone a friend beforehand. That way I was only embarrassing myself in a roomful of strangers. Albeit fit, toned, and strangely flexible strangers.

I even tried to choose a spot at the back of the room, well away from any mirrors. But avoiding mirrors at the gym is like avoiding those who like looking into them, so I still saw myself from a number of unflattering angles as I tried to keep up with the class. This was a lot harder than I expected, and hurt a lot more too.

Long story short, 40 minutes later when the instructor asked us to take to our mat for relaxation, I gladly hit the floor. Only to find, to my horror, that my body was nowhere near as relaxed as I wanted to be.

After all the strenuous activity, I found my muscles twitching and shaking in a kind of post-traumatic shock. While everyone else was calmly stretching, my legs kept kicking in a crazy beat that would leave Michael Flatley for dead and he has the honour of setting a record for having the fastest feet!

Trying to be more mindful than manic, I had stern words with myself and eventually started to calm down. Just in time for the class to be over and we all had to get back up again to go home.

Shakily, I rolled up my mat, thanked the instructor and ensured her that I hadn't found it too difficult, and would be back soon (fingers firmly crossed behind my back, which now I think about it, probably wouldn't work in a room full of mirrors).

Then made my way to the car for a quiet sit down before I was able to drive home again.

Yet I have promised myself that I will get back to the gym...as soon as I am certain it's not gonna hurt me to do so.

In the meantime, I'm going to forgo the Yogalates and just stick to Lattés instead.

Jx

©2012

It’s Life, Gym, But Not as We Know it

Some might call it a mid-life crisis.

Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.

I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.

And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.

Now all I have to do, is go!

The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.

There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.

Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.

There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.

Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.

So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.

After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.

Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.

After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.

Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.

*sighs*

Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…

Jx
©2010

One Small Step for Womankind

I’ve been chiding myself for being too physically inactive lately.

Oh I had good reason after I was injured in a car accident late in 2007, but I’m almost walking without a limp these days and really should be fitter. But I have to admit it’s been quite a while since I’ve been intimately acquainted with a gym, a pool, or even the local jogging trail. It’s even longer since I took part in team sports of any sort (that one’s definitely back in the days BC…before children that is).

So I was thinking I should take up something, anything, in order to enhance my endurance, and reduce the risk of some certain diseases (I’ve recently had reason to reflect on same, thanks to nasty things happening- thankfully to other people).

But after this past week, I’m starting to think that maybe I do get enough exercise after all, just by being a mother. Cool.

Now, it’s not like my son doesn’t have enough medical appointments to keep us busy already, but since he happened to break yet another bone after yet another incident with a chair (oh, don’t ask), it was back to the hospital again.

Our local hospital is a 'teaching hospital', so it’s pretty darn big. To entertain myself (and take my mind off even more medical bills) I started counting our footsteps, just to see how much ground we covered in the almost 3.5 hours we were there.

OK, so from car to the clinic (to see the doctor) = 257 steps.

The clinic to X Ray department (to check for fractures) = 583 steps.

X Ray back to Clinic (to get results) = 583 steps.

Clinic to Physio (to see a therapist who wasn’t even there, d’oh) = 186 steps.

Physio to OT (to get measured for a splint he couldn’t wear) = 112 steps.

OT to the Pharmacy (to put in script for chemo drugs) = 259 steps.

Pharmacy to cafeteria (purely killing time by filling up the boy) = 368 steps (would’ve been more if we took the stairs).

Cafeteria to Physio (to apply plaster) = 432 steps.

Physio to the Pharmacy (to pick up medications) = 287 steps.

Pharmacy back to car (to collapse) = 225 steps.

Total = 3292 steps! Even more, if you count the pacing back and forth I did whilst waiting for doctors, radiographers, therapists, and pharmacists, and just plain old stressing out.

Yep, seems I got a decent workout after all, simply by having a son have yet another altercation with a chair (no really, don’t ask). Not that I’d recommend it as a motivation to get moving.

Oh and with all that exercise, I didn’t feel at all guilty for the pizza we picked up on the way home for dinner that night.

Next time I think I’ll wear a pedometer to the supermarket … with a bit of luck it’ll cancel out the calories of the confectionary aisle.

Jx
©2009