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