Fitness classes are new to me. I’ve tried a few here and there over the years, but never consistently, instead favoring my own pace on the elliptical.
No ridiculous aerobics moves. No confusing choreography sequences. Just me, my earbuds, and independent cardio.
Starting about a week ahead of the New Year’s resolutionists, that was my 2015 routine.
I didn’t really appreciate that it had worked at all until four months in, when my favorite person to shop with ever (I always buy from her because she has no filter) brought me a pair of jeans to try.
Just as I swore they’d never fit, they did. And right up to Labor Day, I worked those white jeans into every outfit possible.
This past summer they didn’t see the light of day.
Instead hanging sadly by their larger cousins, they were an aggravating reminder of the fitness I’d had in my grasp for a hot minute.
Motivated not entirely by The Jeans, but also by the fact that I’m squarely in the camp of those who exercise to eat, I kicked off the fall with a new scale (love-hate relationship defined) and a restructured gym membership.
And I’m giving classes another go. It took a friend inviting me, but I’m now hooked.
I’m actually choosing to spend an hour of my free time with an instructor who tells us we’re sweating butter.
This strength training business is no joke. She makes for darn sure we are exercising it all. Even when there are moves I loathe (and there are a few), she’s too bouncy and smiley for me to do anything other than follow suit.
It’s hard and humbling and I’m more than a little sore afterward, but I feel stronger already, and I love that.
It’s given me the bravery to walk into my first ever spin class, and for the first time in two decades, to brush up on barre.
What takes shape from here? We’ll see.
I’ll always prefer dessert to deadlifts.
For now, I’m thankful for the instructors who make it look easy and the friends who lift and bike and bend beside me, keeping me from going it alone.