OH MY HOLY HELL. ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?

Ya’ll. Seriously. If anyone was looking for Dante’s 10th Circle of Hell, I stumbled into it this morning. I did more than stumble into it, I parallel parked and stayed for an hour. And it was so horrifically bad, that I had to rush to my computer tonight to tell you all about it. Because I learned to share in kindergarten and I’m just generous like that.

I mentioned to you earlier that I’m still trying to drop this last twenty cough::thirty::cough pounds, and went to that aerobics class two weeks ago that I didn’t particularly enjoy. So then Blaine suggested I work out at the gym on base, but it’s a twenty-five minute drive both ways and the time of their classes doesn’t work for my schedule, or there’s a ladies fitness center near the house with convenient classes, but you have to practically take out a bank loan to attend, or I *could* walk on my own treadmill more often, but quite frankly it’s just not as fun …. You get the picture. Basically, I want the weight-loss fairies to come to my house at night while I’m sleeping and wave their fat-sucking wands over my body, rendering me slim and trim each morning. But I doubt that’s going to happen. Especially now that I’m getting older, and my metabolism is probably slowing down. You know how ineffective an old metabolism can be. Have I mentioned I’m getting older, and in fact am turning forty soon???? FORTY?

Anyway. Totally by coincidence, another mom at my kids’ school was telling me last week about a weight loss competition that one of our local karate schools is sponsoring. They are offering work-out sessions three mornings and three evenings a week and you don’t have to be a member to attend. She invited me, and assured me that 1) the music was very good {you all know how I feel about working out to The Funkadelics or Marvin Gaye} and 2) yes, it’s aerobics. I was VERY clear on that, since I have no interest in taking karate. She repeated, AEROBICS. As in, moving, aerobically. So I decided to give it a try this morning.

OH. MY. GOODNESS. (Ya’ll, the only reason I’m not dropping about a dozen F-bombs in this journal entry is because my mom and a few of her friends read it …. But trust me, the experience I had this morning was totally F-bomb worthy.)

I cannot even begin to tell you the discomforts that were thrust upon my person and my psyche during this one hour from Hell. But let me try:

First of all, I had to take my shoes and socks off. The class is taught barefoot. Let me repeat that, in case it wasn’t clear: MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY I HAD TO WORK OUT BAREFOOT WITH A BUNCH OF OTHER BAREFOOT PEOPLE. Can you even imagine the crap you would see if you looked at this floor under a microscope????? And you want me to stand on it barefooted???? OK, that was like, anxiety attack #1.

Then we had stretches …. So far, so good. But then, THEN, (you have to really *see* the frantic hand gestures I’m doing when I tell this story to truly appreciate the dreadfulness) after the warm up, the instructor said, “Pick a partner” -------- I hate when people tell me to pick a partner! It always means something unpleasant and socially awkward is fixing to happen. I don’t want to have a partner, or be a partner! I’m a lone wolf, solitary, anti-social, and work better by myself!! Alone! No partners!

So the middle-aged lady next to me (Probably not much older than me, what with me being almost forty and all) turned to face me, and we had to take turns, for probably ten or fifteen minutes, first holding some kind of glove, and then a full-body pad, and try to punch and kick one another in the stomach! Punches!! Front kicks! And round-house kicks! (which, by the way, are actually much harder than they look) In the stomach! And the people around me in the room were like, grunting and exclaiming “Heeyah!” as they did this! And I’m thinking …. Where are the aerobics?! This isn’t aerobics! This is freakin’ karate!!!! Sure, I watched Ralph Macchio in the Karate Kid when I was younger, but I didn’t rush out then to earn my black belt and I’m not interested in doing it now!!! And I’m going to vomit because we are all barefoot and dripping sweat on this floor!!!

Oh, but it gets worse. Much worse.

Then, the instructor said it was time for our cardio. Cardio? Oh, thank God. This must be the aerobic part. I’ll admit, the music they were playing was pretty darn peppy. OK, I’m thinking, now it’s time for the good stuff, the move-to-the-beat-stuff that will make me feel better about myself when we’re finished.

So all the ladies grab a partner (Again? With the partner thing???) and line up at one end of the room. They all seem to know what they’re doing, so I tap my partner on the shoulder …. Um, excuse me? What are we doing? Her response: Suicide sprints. What the ….. ????? Suicide sprints?! On the karate mats?! I haven’t done a suicide sprint since I went out for 7th grade basketball, and I hated them then! Then the instructor throws down the gauntlet …. Every pair of women has to do two sets, and whichever pair comes in last, has to do three. So he blows the whistle, and the first group takes off, and I’m watching them …………. And they are every one of them, totally fucking cheating!!! Not ONE of them reaches down to touch the floor at the turning point. Hello?!?!?! Now granted, I might have only lasted four days in 7th grade basketball camp, but I learned how to do a proper suicide run while I was there! So when my partner completes her set (thankfully, in the middle of the pack so we won’t have to do another set) and runs back and slaps my hand (ugh! More touching of people I don’t know!) I decide I’m going to show these lazy-ass cheaters how a proper suicide drill is done. (I swear, I’m really not competitive. I simply don’t know what comes over me sometimes.)

I take off, running like the graceful gazelle I am, reach the quarter way point, bend down, touch the ground, spin around …………… and Oh my God, I’m fallllllllliiiinnnnnngggggg! I just fell flat on my ass!!! In the middle of the floor, in front of everyone! It wasn’t a little stumble, either, or the sort of goofy slip you do when you lose your balance a little ….. it was a full-blown, to-the-ground, America’s Funniest Home Videos kind of fall that takes like an entire minute for you to actually hit the floor, arms flailing all the time. And then I was like a kid on a freaking Slip and Slide when I hit the ground, with the weight and momentum of my fat ass propelling me about five feet down the mat!

I like to have died. And you know that wouldn’t have happened if they’d let me wear my cute new Avias like I wanted.

And what’s worse? By then we had totally fallen to last place. Thankfully, due to my amazing speed (aka. The other ladies were way overweight and slow) I was able to catch up again … but could I BE any more embarrassed???? Feel any more self-concious?? Wish with any greater intensity to be ANYWHERE but there????

Yes. As it turns out, I can.

Because believe it or not, it got worse.

Next, the instructor said we’d be working on our stomach muscles. Well, actually, what he said next was, “Holy cow, Uncoordinated-Girl, are you ok???” but we’ll just forget that part. Stomach muscles. Good. That’s the part of my body in the worst of the worst shape, so about five thousand crunches should do the trick. Hey everybody, grab a partner! And I’m thinking, “A partner? What on earth do I need a partner to do crunches for?” and then he said something so appalling, so horrifying, that I stopped for a moment, stunned. “Wrap your feet around each other’s feet and lock ankles!!!”

Oh. HELL to the NO if he thinks I’m going to wrap my feet around someone else’s ………….. ah, shit!!! SHIT!!!!!!!!!!! She just wrapped her feet around my feet!!!!!!!!! SOMEONE IS TOUCHING MY FEET WITH THEIR FEET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I swear, I’m melting, I’m melting !!!!!

And then he wanted us to hold hands and take turns doing a sort of see-saw sit up and what did I do? Can you guess what I did??? I totally and 100 percent played the baby card. “I’m sorry! I just had a baby recently and can’t do sit ups like this ….. I think I’ll just scooch away and do some crunches by myself, ok?????”

And for a brief, shining moment, I congratulated myself on getting out of it.

And then?

It got worse. I know, you just don’t see how it’s even possible, but it did.

My partner lay on her back, and I had to stand with my feet on either side of her head, so she could GRAB MY ANKLES --- MY BARE FREAKIN’ ANKLES -- with her hands and pull her legs up to work her stomach muscles and then I had to push her feet back down each time. I. Had. To. Touch. Her. Feet. And when it was over (gag, I feel nauseous just thinking about it) I had to lay on my back. Oh my word. And she stood, with her feet right next to my head, and I had to grab hold of her ankles (ugh. I just threw up in my mouth a little just remembering the experience) and let her take a turn pushing MY feet back down.

Let me recap for you. I had a total stranger’s bare feet right next to my face. I had to hold onto her bare ankles. She was touching my bare feet. Me. Remember? I’m the one who can’t even get a pedicure because it grosses me out.

I’ve never fully understood the concept of hysterical behavior, where you can’t tell if a person is laughing or crying. You know, you hear about somebody who is so freaked out by something they get sort of panic stricken and just start wigging out until somebody grabs them by the shoulders and shakes them and shouts, “Get ahold of yourself, man!” and then maybe slaps them across the face for good measure? Today, that hysterical person, was me.

And you want to know what the best workout I had all day was? When I called my sister to recap this adventure for her on the phone, and we got to laughing so hard that I literally had tears running down my face (and I sort of almost slipped back into that hysterical laughing/crying thing again but I held it together). I’m not kidding, that ten-minute conversation did more for my stomach muscles than any of the touchy-feely karate shit we did in class.

And if I find out the ladies gym down the street offers a normal, shoes-on, nobody-touches-anybody, move-to-the-beat-without-having-to-round-house-kick-your-neighbor, aerobics class? I’ll get a second mortgage on my house if that’s what it takes. Otherwise, it looks like I’m stuck choosing between Marvin Gaye or the Karate Kid. Heaven help me.