I’m awake at a stupid hour and Rob² are sleeping so the only thing that makes sense is to write some form of a sad, self-deprecating blog. It’s what I’m best at…I try not to fight it. So here goes.
I think I’ll head in the direction of my pathetic attempt of a workout this past week. Fortunately, I made the stellar decision to not work out for my entire pregnancy, bringing the total number of months of moving as little as possible to 12…or as I like to call it, an entire freaking year. So now, to remedy the recent trauma I’ve sustained (I’m referring to the attack on my uterus that was, in my opinion, fought bravely with the occasional remark similar if not verbatum to, “this can’t be right, this is like death,” and “Are you sure it isn’t a sucking chest wound-because I’m pretty sure I’ve been shot”) Rob convinced me to try this fitness studio that combines ballet, yoga, and Pilates. And no it’s not called Bayogalaties…but it should be. It does roll off the tongue. Anyway, so Rob found this place and convinced me to try it. “You’ll be great,” he said, “soon you’ll be better than everyone,”
he said-but turns out…those were just the lofty words of a husband afraid that his wife is standing in the diabetes line just begging for a heaping order of sadness with a side of early mortality. So after a few weeks I warily obliged and went to my first class. I found a spot next to the oldest lady in the room with hopes of being less-humiliated than what I was sure was the inevitable. I ended up being both very right and also terribly wrong. The older lady next to me was a beast. A bionic grandma just killin it for an hour straight, all while keeping her toes unreasonably well pointed. So I was wrong in my choice of whom to park next to…BUT I was so right that the humiliation was imminent. I could hardly keep up and when I could, there I was just glugging around like a cylinder of cream of chicken soup after an edge gets free from the can. It was so awesome.
It’s even worse because the ballet elements (that was originally auto corrected to say “baller elements,” which I hope I don’t regret correcting) are not even really ballet..or baller. You hold on to the barre for dear life until your knuckles turn white, you’re only somewhat concerned with turn-out and if you have to bend your knees during a sequence-no big deal. My ballet instructor would have spilt blood over these things…my blood. Seriously. So that makes me nervous.
And just to round it out-the studio sells special socks that grip the floor and have their logo printed on it. So on top of my weak, asthmatic performance, I’m also wearing stupid pink socks just to be sure and brand myself an outsider.