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

Footy Fever

Our family had a rare and unusual moment last night. All four of us in the same room at the same time watching the same thing.

Almost-unheard of in our crew.

The usual practice is all of us spread out across any number of rooms and electronic devices (or heaven forbid- a book).

But last night was State of Origin.

While the big fellas of football were battling it out, state against state, mate against mate, our little team was plate against plate as we squashed onto the sofa, transfixed by pizza and the television. And a beer for my Beloved.

Working the ridiculous number of hours that he does, my Beloved has to stick with a 0.0 alcohol limit. And I seemed to have missed out on the Irish Drinking Gene so only imbibe on rare occasions, much to the disgust of some of my relatives. The kids of course are too young to indulge in the beverage of choice for sports punters the world over, but have now reached an age where they can appreciate the finer points of football (that's NRL). Or so we thought.

The Melbourne Cup may well be The Race That Stops A Nation (not sure if there's supposed to be a ® or ™ there) in Springtime, but the annual State Of Origin series captures the imagination of about 11.8 million Aussies- roughly half the total population- for three nights mid-winter. Even those who don't seriously follow the footy (like me) can get caught up in all the excitement.

It's NSW in Blue and Queensland in Maroon as they battle it out for the honour of a trophy and title of Origin champions. Sadly, the boys in Blue haven't been on the winning side for about 7 years now (leading some feisty footy fans north of the border to suggest we should sell the Trophy Cabinet. Rude.)

Sports lovers know the go: the pre-match sledging, the settling in period (read: a bit of biff between blokes), and the post-match recriminations: "We was robbed" an infamous (and grammatically incorrect) war cry. All set amidst a soundtrack of screaming supporters in their relevant colours alongside the field.

The usual position for home viewers is pizza and beverage on hand, tv remote under the control of the alpha male, and various missiles within reach when disagreeing with the ref's decision (lesson learned- only have soft options available).

For us, it was one child sitting on one parent apiece, snuggled up in our flannelette pjs (well it is winter) with my Beloved proudly wearing his NSW footy jumper

First try came barely 5 minutes in, with NSW crossing the line much to our jubilation (and relief). Not even having to stop and explain the penalty and scoring system to our offspring every few seconds dampened the mood.

Until Queensland came back with a vengeance. "Shepherd! Shepherd!" cried both my Beloved and I as the player in question dodged behind his team mate and crossed the line to ground the ball. The NSW mob just stood there like sheep and let him do it, obviously thinking it was, well, obvious. However the video referee didn't agree with us, upheld the try, and the converted goal put the opposition in front at half time.

Sadly, our little team of two also fell at the halfway mark, and despite waiting patiently for all the commentators to commentate, and advertisers to advertise, for the entire 20 minute break, barely 10 minutes into the second half we had to send the players off - to bed.

Since it's been such a long time that my Beloved has been able to sit, drink, and enjoy a game, I was on kid-duty again, and could only participate from afar, listening to the exclamations coming from the direction of the living room as the game continued.

So you can imagine the disappointment the next morning when the kids awoke to the bad news that NSW lost the game, and this year's series, by just one point.

Imagine my Beloved's belly after all that beer and pizza, and not enough sleep.

And imagine the reaction when, after all that quality time together, our son declared that he really enjoyed watching the Soccer with us.

Better luck next year.

Jx

©2012