Gymmy crack corn...

Inspired by last week's Black Friday special, and the imminent inclement weather interfering with my walks, I took the plunge and joined a local gym here in Chico.

Originally, I had resisted this particular gym because it reminded me of a Las Vegas casino from the outside. However, the classes and what this gym had to offer was really the best deal in town. And I got up at 6:05 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving in order to try and catch the 50% off membership rates. Although I arrived at 6:50 a.m., the first 10 early-birders had beat me out and I got only 40% but it was a great deal nonetheless. I calculated that if I took yoga classes separately or even joined Curves, it would still be less per month at this gym and had it had more to offer. And if the truth be told, what I really wanted to do was go back to dancing. In order to do that, I rationalized that if I joined a gym, I would build back my stamina and don my Capezios again.

On Saturday I planned to take a gentle yoga class. Wellllll, I misread the schedule and missed the class. But I knew that I had to take a class as soon as possible in order to honor my intention and get the habit in motion (pun intended for the Chico locals) or the busyness of next week would distract me from starting. So I decided to take the only class available that morning . . . Zumba!

Yes, Zumba. Even the name alone gets your mariachis moving, doesn't it? This is the hot new workout/dance class based on Latin music, dancing and aerobics all in one. I grabbed my jazz shoes to put on and I heard a crack. It had been so long since I wore my shoes that the soles had dried up and literally cracked in half when I put them on. I began to laugh as little chunks of black vinyl fell off as I stood up and walked around. I quickly realized what a perfect metaphor this was about the desires and dreams we stash in the closet waiting for . . . the right time. My dancing shoes were waiting for me but I just never quite got back to wearing them and my dreams had literally dried up. Undaunted, I threw on a pair of sneakers and zoomed (or shall I say, Zummed?) to class.

The class was packed with women of all shapes, sizes and ages, so at first I felt comforted. Until the music started and the perky young instructor began to gyrate. What was I thinking trying this class as my return to working out? I felt all thumbs... or feet or whatever would be the inept equivalent of someone who had been out of the game for too long. At least, infinite wisdom had led me to dress in black, grey and pink which turned out to be the Zumba colors. Many of the women were in the same colors and the instructor matched right down to the black pants with the ZUMBA name wrapping around her hip-huggers.

It has been a long time since I took any class where I kept staring at the clock mentally willing it to go faster. At one point, I got so excited that the class was about to end until I realized that I was seeing the clock in reverse in the mirror, when in reality only 1o minutes had passed.

Fortunately, having actually taught aerobics (Richard Simmons' Anatomy Asylum) I knew how to monitor myself and not make the typical weekend jockette mistakes. I knew to take it more slowly; to be sure I could still talk (or breathe) while doing the dance steps; take my heart rate, etc. The only problem? I didn't want to have to be doing all that. In my head, I was still the dynamo at the front of the room calling out the steps and motivating the movements. I didn't want to be the one needing to be moderate. I looked around at all the more mature faces and bodies and realized I was closer to their age now than I was to the woman in front leading the group. Eeeek. Gulp. Humble pie for Thanksgiving dessert, anyone?

All this and the fact that during the class, a woman who had been behind me decided to leave and walked over and took my SmartWater bottle! Of course, she wasn't trying to steal my water and must have mistaken it for her water, but the music was too loud for me to correct her error and now I was at risk of dehydration, too. I managed to make it through the class to the end and get home to take some Arnica and open a new bottle of SmartWater.

In my sermon on Sunday, something possessed me to share my dancing shoes metaphor with my congregation, while not really conscious of the fact that I was making something rather personal very public. (Which is why I figured I could go ahead and write about it here). Until one of the church members came up and told me they thought I was brave for talking about it and making it public so now everyone knows I am working out. Damn. I was only trying to make a point, not point myself out.

On Monday, I decided to try one of the slower classes. Slow and steady wins the race, right? As I head into the gym I encounter one church member I know. I assess the class and feel that I am better off resuming an active workout routine that is not as demanding so that I don't overdo it and defeat my intention. At midpoint, a woman comes over to me and smiles a knowing smile, "You're here" and then introduces herself as someone from church that I had not met as yet who heard me on Sunday. Busted.

On Friday, I get to workout again and have my free fitness evaluation and orientation. I am trying not to put that it really feels like I have to start all over. All the things I knew, all the progress I made, and yet my sore muscles are acting like it is the first time we have ever worked out. At least I didn't wait till January 2nd to begin.

Do you think I can get some leg warmers on e-Bay??