When Ben and I recently moved from old Stink Town (pronounced "Clay-ton") to a more well-to-do area, I became concerned for my fitness upon finding that the local gym's abundance of massage chairs was matched by its shortage of weight machines.
The cardio room in this land of leisure was equally unencouraging, the well-groomed ladies of the treadmills accomplishing no more than a light trot as their flawless skin refused to sweat. Now, I wouldn't call myself competitive, but when the opportunity airises to prove that I'm better than someone (which, as science has shown, can only be ascertained through a match in physical strength), I like to give them a royal thrashing before their family and friends, then parade about wearing their head as a hat. The good ol' girls of Clayton, who aren't afraid to give the treadmill the grunty pounding it deserves, were thus a little more inspiring to run amongst (I say that as though we were a herd of buffalo and, indeed, 'cardio' in Clayton was allocated to a paddock where we were sent to flatten out the land in exchange for our membership. Some of the girls didn't make it. I say they were better off).
With all the fine dining around here to grow fat upon and the fact it's safe enough to walk around at a leisurely pace (not to mention it rains the most delicious cupcakes and lemonade), I wondered, how do the fine folk of this strange land remain so svelte? WELL.. I got my answer at 11am on Sunday morning when I rocked up for Zumba (that's right, it's another dance blog. Ha!). Having come from a class of old women and one fat dude, run by dead-eyed dance school drop-outs (barring Renata, our beloved fill-in), I was accustomed to being the most co-ordinated dancer. Unlike my classmates, I still had all my original limbs (even my glass eye wasn't a hindrance!). This new, fancy pants class (no fancy pants, no entry) was made-up of fit, young women (except for one old dude. There's always one!) who didn't have to be told by a disillusioned teacher after they failed to follow the choreography once more, "Ok.. Just do whatever's comfortable." In fact, in this parallel universe, I was the slow one. I know, right? Crazy.
My new teacher (whose name I failed to catch but is probably something exotic, like.. Ann) is one of those high-energy, cheeky, fun-loving chicks you wish you could be. And since that's impossible (believe me, no matter how many of these women I skin, it's just not the same), you'd settle for being her best mate. She even resembled the personal trainer from Biggest Loser, Michelle Bridges, and certainly sported the same work ethic. In fact, it probably was her. Definitely.
By around 20 minutes into this class, I could feel all the calories from a fast food and booze diet typical of moving house (yes.. that's why) being exorcised, the little demons visibly flying from my body. (Or, it may have been sweat.) When Michelle/Ann tied back her hair at this point, put on wrist bands and warned, "Now we're really gonna work," I realised, however, that the hardest workout I'd had in weeks was only the warm-up... As is the way, just when I thought I couldn't go any harder, I pushed through the pain barrier and entered a state of euphoria. You know, like right before you drown.
At this rate, if I go to Zumba 3-4 times a week (which I won't), I shall soon have the figure of a 5 year old boy, which is every grown woman's dream.
