If I’m going to take some sort of exercise class, it’s going to be something I enjoy doing. I won’t even finish saying the word spinni… because the mere thought of biking makes the inside of my lady lips ache in a very bad way, and yes the inside of my lady lips have ached in a very good way, but that is not the subject of this particular post. So no bike.
Another factor in determining what form of exercise I pursue is cost. We are a one income family and that one income, while respectable, is not the sort of cash that will allow for a swanky gym membership and an access to an encouraging but ass-kicking personal trainer. You should try those online fitness classes, you say because you are not my friend. My friend would know that I do not receive unsolicited advice graciously. Did you hear me ask your opinion? I didn’t think so.
So there is running. I did that. It’s a seasonal thing unless I become one of those hard core runners who invests in winter wear like the high-collar, thumb-hole sleeved top, and the insulated vest, and the thermos-regulating tights, and the heat-generating gloves, and let’s face it, running in winter in New Jersey is still going to be cold, and I am not a fan of cold. In the ever-popular game my kids play of Would You Rather, if my choice is between running in winter and getting a tooth pulled or eating a cricket or never playing Minecraft again (because these are my kids’ choices), I would definitely choose not running in winter…unless the cricket were alive in which case I’d have to stipulate that I’ve been medicated legally or otherwise before eating an insect.
And another thing. My almost 50-year-old knees say, NO FUCKING WAY to running! Children! Yes, you there with your 30-something year-old body complaining that you’re old and life is passing you by. You are young. No one can tell you you’re wrong. But, let me tell you that aging is a bitch, and when you carry loads of laundry down the stairs into the basement and wonder if each trip will be your last because your knees may give out any moment and no one will discover your broken body laying lifeless on the unfinished, cement floor until they run out of underwear, that’s when you know that you will not be running…and you should also start looking for a ranch house with no stairs or an apartment building with a doorman because it will be Frank the doorman who finds you passed out on the floor, not your friends on old-people cruises to the Caribbean or the Norwegian fjords or wherever the fuck they go to avoid sitting at home waiting to die or your family who comes around the minimal times required to secure a place in your will.
There is one more requirement for my pursuit of exercise regime. Anonymity. Here in the suburbs, I’ve taken a Marlin Perkins Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom approach to my studies. I have followed the exercise habits of the suburban stay at home mothers and fathers in the Mid-Atlantic regions and find that they tend to travel in packs. Once a scout identifies a new craze be it Zumba or CrossFit or the Stiletto Workout, the scout recruits friends who want to wear spandex together and sweat profusely under-boob and throughout loinage with each other creating a bond essential to suburban living that says, “I’ve seen you at your worst, so don’t ever fuck with me.”
The last anonymity requirement being the most important to me, I started taking a cardio kickboxing class where my kids take Tae Kwon Do – NOT because it’s free cause it’s not – NOT because it’s appropriate for the decaying senescent such as myself cause I ache – but because I sweat and pant and care not of my Lycra accentuated camel toe for I am unknown to the rest of my sweating, panting, classmates – and when each class starts with a series of cardio jumpy exercises that remind me that after giving birth twice, my pelvic floor muscles are as flabby as the rest of me, I think nothing of the leakage. Well, I think a little bit about the leakage because I would like to know how many Kegels it takes to sort that shit out.
Children! You there with your 30-something year old pelvic floor muscles. Do your Kegels. Or take up swimming and hope no one notices that you are able to heat the water around you and only you.
At least if my knees give way, I’ll be in a studio where someone can call for help. But, if you haven’t heard from me in a month, assume I am lying prostrate on my basement floor and my family is going commando.