Oh calves of jelly how you taunt me!

So, my husband said to me last week after a doctor's appointment that he weighed a weight he said he would never weigh.  I will not disclose that number, but just know that it is a number that he never wanted to weigh.  I sighed, understanding his grief, because I not only weigh a number that I never wanted to weigh, but I probably weigh the same number that he weighs.  And I am seven inches shorter.

So, he and I agreed to do something about it.  I am not sure what he is doing about it, because so far his daily pattern appears to be the same.  But what I did about it this week was a real leap out of my comfort zone (comfort zone = couch).  I attended not one, not two, but THREE different classes at the Y this week.  I completed all three of the classes without passing out, having a heart attack or breaking a bone, all of which were entirely possible. 

First, I attended a "pump" class, which is not a training class for gestating mothers, but, as it turns out, is a class where a woman who was not in perfect shape went through a forty-five minute weight training routine with the class.  Her not perfect figure gave me some hope that I would not die during the class.  I enjoyed it as much as I can enjoy anything that I force myself to do at 5:00 am.  (Did I mention it was at 5:00 am?)  Yeah.  I normally avoid any sort of reality at 5:00 am.  The only time I have actually enjoyed being up that early was when I was 38 weeks pregnant and couldn't sleep and found that Noggin played "Dawson's Creek" reruns at 4 am.  To this day, I don't think my husband knew that when I couldn't sleep in the early hours of the morning with a boulder sitting on my pelvic bone, I was relishing in the guilty pleasure of Pacey and Joey.  Where was I? Oh yes, the pump class.  So, I survived it.  I highlighted it on the Y schedule in my cube at work and plan to return again.

But pump classes alone will not provide the cardiac arrest-ehem-cardiac exercise that any healthy body needs.  That was provided in two classes led by women with much more perfect bodies.  The first, a step class, was led by a perky blonde woman who was probably my age and height, but with the body of a sophomore cheerleader.  She was genuinely interested in making sure I felt comfortable in the class and encouraged me to come back.  She commented at the end that she was so glad I made it through the whole class.  It hadn't occurred to me that my calves would be surprised by stepping up and down for 45 minutes straight.  I made it through, depsite my complete lack of rhythm and ocassional confusion about what the heck was going on.  It wasn't until two days later when I realized that my calves were never going to feel normal again that perhaps the instructor was surprised I had made it through the whole class because I shouldn't have made it through the whole class.

Nevertheless, I soldiered on.  Two days later, calves still smarting, I attended what is called Zumba, but should really be called "So you want to be a back up dancer for Shakira".  I LOVED this class.  It was the outlet that I had been needing all along.  I am far too old, too married, too much a mother to hit my local dance clubs on a Friday night to shake it.  But this was my element!  An entire roomful of women at 6:00 in the evening rotating their hips to Black Eyed Peas while dressed in yoga pants and t-shirts.  Sign me up! If only they served plastic cups of rum and coke...

So, it has been a week of experiments.  I will be attending all of these classes again next week.  I just hope one day, my calves forgive me.