Bent Out of Shape

Recently, I attended my first ever Yoga class at the gym. I was hoping to learn some good stretching exercises, perhaps improve my flexibility. Did I ever. But, I did not realize that Yoga also takes lots of strength and balance.

The woman who taught the class was a petite Asian woman. Now, if I round up, I am all of five feet tall. I am positive that I towered over this little lady by all of 2 or 3 inches. I felt smugly superior, until she actually began the class.  

During my short hour Yoga-ing, I became a dog, a chair, a plateau and an airplane. In reality, those are all code words for human pretzel. That was not a problem. Waking up the next morning feeling like a broken human pretzel was. I found myself, once again, at the mercy of a bottle of ibuprofen. Cursed child proof caps!

Will I attend the Yoga class again? Yes, probably. Why? I am like the proverbial man who when asked why he continues to smack himself in the head with a hammer answers, “Because it feels so good when I stop!”

Meditate on that!

Help! They’re Trying to Kill Me!

by Terrie v.B. 

As a Christmas present this year, my husband and I decided to purchase a gym membership. Speaking at least for myself, the reasoning behind this decision was because my body seems to be responding to the aging process by re-writing the classic, MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY and replacing it with the wildly popular, MUTINY ON THE BODY. (My most profound apologies to Misters Nordhoff and Hall.)

We began our gym experience a couple of days ago. To kick things off, I met with a trainer whose job was to give me a fitness assessment. The trainer seemed to be a nice young man, all of 20 years old or so, who looked as if he hadn’t even started shaving yet. When he inquired regarding my fitness goals, I mumbled something about  improving my strength, endurance and cardio health. Truth be told, my answer to his question should have been that I merely wanted to avoid the end result of a sedentary life style. Namely, the fate of eventually curling up in a fetal position in a corner somewhere sucking my untoned, out of shape thumb. Next, the young trainer asked me all sorts of personal questions including questions regarding my age and weight. In what other setting would any man dare ask a woman for such personal information? It was a bit surreal. But not as surreal as what happened next.

The trainer then instructed me to hold a gadget that would measure my BMI. For you uninitiated in health club speak, that stands for Body Mass Index. Or as I like to think of it, Blubber Manifesting (in) Inches. Within seconds after holding the BMI gadget thingie, I possessed more information that any one human being should ever have regarding his or her own body. In accordance with my personal privacy act, I will not divulge (rhymes with da bulge) my BMI with anyone. Let’s just say, as far as BMI goes, ignorance is bliss.

For the next stage of my fitness assessment, I was assigned to a young lady who also appeared to be no more than twenty years old. After giving me a quick tour of the torture rack area, I mean the weight machine area, this young woman informed me that she was going to help me “work my legs”. She deftly demonstrated several exercises using the weight machines, and of course she made everything look soooo easy. Now it was my turn. As I went through the motions of “working my legs” I nodded and smiled while I inwardly responded with “You want me to what?” “You’ve got to be kidding me!” and “Easy for you, baby face.” The entire time I noticed a discernable evil glint in the young lady’s eye.

Now, two days later, I am positive that she was trying to kill me. I feel as if someone poured Ready Mix Concrete into my legs. I am stiff and sore in muscles that I did not even know existed. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.

Don’t bother looking for me in the upcoming summer olympics.

My new motto: No Pain. You got a problem with that?