As I mentioned yesterday, last night marked my first visit to the gym in… well, in far longer than it should really have been. What’s more, we went to one of the Les Mills classes that the gym offered, which does not afford much opportunity to “ease into it”, as they say. So, how did it go?
Well, the fact that I’m still here and typing provides the good news of the story.
The bad news is that I think it very nearly killed me. There were a few guys in the class, so I didn’t feel as though I was completely out of place when I first got there.
Shortly after we started, though, I did begin feeling completely out of place. For one thing, I’m not used to working out to a rythm. Trying to follow the instructor’s movements, in time, while maintaining good form, with music blasting at me from all corners of the room, was unsettling, to say the least. It becomes particularly challenging when you’re doing an exercise that compells you to lie on your back and stare at the ceiling, while somehow still keeping an eye on the instructor to figure out just what in hell’s name you should be doing.
And then my lack of training kicked in. About 15 minutes into the class, we started doing some intensive leg work (squats, lunges, stratospheric leaps, Russian dancing), and I sensed a growing awareness of just how unfit I am. The woman in front of me, who was probably half my size, was carrying at least twice the weight and prancing about delightedly with it. I, on the other hand, was finding solace in the fact that at least I had not yet puked.
Every now and then I would catch a glimpse of my tomato-red, sweat-soaked face in the mirror. It was not inspirational.
I survived, however, and even though I had to crawl down the stairs backwards this morning and am sitting with my legs stretched straight out before me, whimpering occasionally, I’d say things aren’t half bad at this point.
Of course, my wife wants to go back tomorrow. Help.