“Just ten more seconds! C’mon, ten little seconds! TEN!…” Nicole shouted enthusiastically.
I can do this
“EIGHT!”
Ok, a little shaky but I got this
“SEVEN!”
Deep breath Ann
“SIX!”
Oh my god, we’re only at six?
“FIVE!!”
What am I doing to myself?
“FOUR!!”
This is the worst pain ever!
“THREE!!”
I swear I’ll just get right up and walk out of here.
“TWO!!! Almost there, you can do it!!”
Just shut up Nicole, SHUT UP!
“ONE!! And release, nice job everyone,” she smiled encouragingly.
THANK YOU GOD.
I collapsed to the ground, arms shaking, heart pounding, and really pissed. Class was about five minutes in, and I was already regretting it. I like to think I make good use of my gym membership and take classes there regularly. Spinning, Muscle Pump, swimming laps, or even a good run on the treadmill—I’m determined to get my money’s worth. However, I also work at a spa that offers Yoga and Core Fusion classes, the latter of which I happen to avoid like the plague. Try as I might, Core Fusion never gets any easier and I usually vow to never take the class again. On several occasions, my legs are so sore the following day that walking is painful, and I end up looking like a baby zebra learning to take its first steps. There's something unnatural about a class that does that to a person so I usually protest it on moral grounds.
However on this particular day, Sara tricked- no, conned- no, HARASSED me into trying Exhale's newest torture technique, Core Fusion Sport. Our menu describes Core Fusion Sport in the following fashion:
With words like firm and chisel, I couldn’t help but be a little interested. It had been quite some time since I’d taken a Core Fusion class and I probably forgot how much I loathed it. That coupled with Sara’s incessant nagging (“Sport! Sport! Sport!”), I caved and agreed to a Friday afternoon class. When Friday finally rolled around, I packed up my workout gear and headed to work for my early morning (6:15am!!) shift. After my shift ended at 2:15pm, it was Sport time. However, my confidence began to wane as my blood sugar began to drop mid afternoon. When it was nearing class time, my attitude (or Ann-itude as Sara likes to call it) was rapidly turning sour. While Sara wanted to Sport, I wanted to nap. I had every intention of ditching class and heading home to my waiting couch, but Sara laid on a guilt trip for the record books. Begrudgingly, I Sported. I’ve since come up with a more accurate description of Core Fusion Sport:
This one hour class is designed to slowly and effectively turn your body’s major muscle groups into soft putty. Feel your knees buckle and your heart pound frighteningly in your chest while you struggle to maintain your last shred of dignity and your classmates look on in horror. Time will practically seem to stand still as you fumble with your weights, lose your balance, and silently cry to yourself.
I offered my revised version for our menu but management wasn’t interested. Admittedly, I may have eaten a Chocolate cupcake with Guinness frosting before class which could have added to my sluggish mood. And, let’s not forget I was at work at 6:15am people!! Plus, I’d be lying if I said the spastic gene didn’t run in the Lindsay family. My dad often notes that with three daughters, he assumed at least one of us would have been athletically inclined. No such luck.
Perhaps the epitome of our spasticity was at a neighbor’s Labor Day BBQ. A friendly game of volleyball was organized amongst the kids of the neighborhood as the adults sat leisurely and enjoyed the weather and an afternoon off. I chose not to join the game, knowing my volleyball skills certainly weren't up to par. Sara, however, must have been feeling confident and decided to give it a whirl. Just as Sara's turn to serve approached, there happened to be a lull in the adult conversation so their attention turned to the game. Sara positioned herself, stepped her left foot back to gain momentum, and gave the volleyball a grand vertical heave into the air. As the ball made it's way back towards her, she reached her arm high behind her head in preparation for a strong serve. It looked promising. My Dad held his breath as he waited for the ball to make contact with her hand. The ball certainly made contact... with her face. Apparently, her timing was slightly off and her hand missed the ball entirely, landing instead on her upturned face. My Dad lowered his head in an all too familiar shame.
In an effort to foster a sense of athleticism, we were enrolled in a variety of dance, gymnastic, and even karate classes throughout our adolescent years, at none of which we really excelled. That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy our time on a balance beam or learning roundhouse punches, but our lack of coordination usually caught up to us and left us at the end of the pack. Karate was the last of our athletic endeavors, and then my mom smartened up. She enrolled us in Art Class.
Sure, Sara tried her hand at golf, and it ended with a golf club to her throat and an incident with an errant swing that left my Dad with a few fractured bones in his hand. And my Dad and I used to toss a football around until I jammed my finger and wanted nothing more to do with it. We tried baseball and again, jammed finger. Basketball in gym class, jammed finger. I took it as a sign to avoid sports for awhile.
I'm happy to say that Core Fusion Sport concluded without incident except for being sore to the point of immobility the following day. Ok, so maybe I won't be joining a baseball league or even a kickball team anytime soon but at least I'm not terrified of anything ending in 'ball' anymore. Well, not as terrified.
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