I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete. I do recognize, however, the many health benefits that come from regular exercise, and one of my goals while living here in Canada has been to increase my activity level for general health and well-being. I am not getting any younger, and the butter here is delicious. I need to offset the butter intake, people.
I have tried to find activities that I enjoy so that I can overcome the gravitational pull of "Let's Make a Deal." This winter term, I decided to enroll in a barre class for the first time. The course description billed this as a class that incorporated elements of Pilates and dance with the aid of a ballet barre. The term "low-impact," a favorite of mine, also appeared, along with the promise that I would leave "feeling incredible." I used to enjoy dance classes way back when, and I like Pilates. How bad could it be?
The description of the class is accurate. I do feel incredible after each session. Incredible here means, "amazed at the fact that my limbs did not shake off my torso and that I did not collapse from over-exertion as the techno music pulsated along to the oxidation of my dying cells." Did I mention this class is called, "Barre Burn?" No? I should have known that anything with the word "burn" in the title is not designed for me.
The instructor of this course, I am convinced, is not human. She is a machine. She teaches an hour of a higher-level barre class immediately preceding my hour-plus-long class, and her energy never flags. In fact, she always goes about ten minutes over on our time, which I know because after about the first 15-20 minutes of class, I look desperately at the clock willing myself to go on. She was not present for the very first class session, which I have decided was a shrewd marketing technique. Her substitute on Week One made me believe I could have a shot at making it through an entire class without praying for sweet, sweet death. The first week that she did teach, I was unable to climb stairs without agony for four days. I overheard her say today that she was going to take a trip for a full two weeks "down there" and was going to steal ideas for more barre exercises. I am convinced her trip is not to Mexico or Arizona, but rather to Hades, and she is going to the Devil himself to find even more ridiculously painful and sadistic routines.
This powerhouse instructor has a charming habit of counting reps down from eight, after you have already done about 2,000 motions. Just when you think you have survived, she says, "and hold!" She then counts even longer and then commands you to pulse the motion in a new and horrifying direction. I did not know that so many muscle groups could simultaneously submit their resignation to me. Then, of course, you have to do everything again on the other side, for the sake of having both hemispheres of your body despise you.
The "aid" of the barre is debatable. By the time we get to the barre, I stagger toward it after having been worked to near-death in the middle of the floor for a good 25 minutes. The exercises at the barre feel easier than what has just transpired, but my legs are still shaking in protest of every bend, stretch, and yes, even standing still seems impossible. I try to save my miniature collapses for moments when the machine is looking away. I jump back in just as she is saying something like, "Just when you want to give up, keep pushing and breathe through it! This is when the body feels the change!" Her programming is apparently also suited to work as a doula. Why I am doing this? Lady Gaga sings overhead, telling me that I am holding my leg in a hydrant-ready pose "for the applause, applause, applause..." I don't hear anyone clapping, but somehow, I manage to hang on during this portion and am rewarded by...FLOOR WORK!
I can usually see the light at the end of the tunnel by the time we get to the floor. Even if the exercises there are difficult, at least my legs no longer have to support my body weight, and the pesky hand-weights that cannot just be 2.5 lbs each because they feel like the weight of the western world are cast aside. Plus, we will soon be stretching, thank goodness, and the techno remixes will give way to a slower-tempo ballad of hope and inspiration.
I know that the stretches feel so much better because of all of the abuse my body has just endured. But what feels the absolute best to me is the last cadence of music and the "Thank you ladies; you all were great!" that means I can profess to my classmates that I, once again, surprisingly, did not require medical attention, waddle to my car, and drive home.
The machine personally told me I did well today (our last session of the term) and asked me if I would be enrolling in the next session. I may have told her that I was moving out of the country soon, which is kind of true, if soon is "within the next four months." If you can't use your lack of Canadian citizenship to avoid pain and suffering, then when can you use it? There is some small part of me that would re-enroll, but that part is probably not any of the muscle groups below my waist.
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