I’m pretty sure the ladies who teach Booty Barre are trying to kill me.
It’s a 60 minute arse kicking the likes of which I’ve never experienced before.
Maximum respect to my friends Abby, Anita, and Ginny, longtime devotees of the barre regimen.
I’m still a neophyte.
The exercise ball sometimes escapes my person during leg lifts, and I seem to sweat like a maniac while everyone around me only perspires lightly (the hell?)
But I haven’t kicked it yet, and my bat wings are showing promise of emerging muscle.
So that’s something.
I suppose the difference between those who are regulars (and deserve every bit of the physical awesome it’s given them) and me comes down to one word.
Tonight it’s two kinds of flavored fudge, my contribution to our Sunday School Ugly Sweater Christmas Party soirée.
During the weeks when my excuses keep me from the gym, the discipline to sidestep sweets is easier to find.
But I’ve killed it this week, all (ok mostly) lean proteins and lunges.
So tonight, ugly sweater and all, it’s on.