No rest for the wicked

I can't quite believe how sore my thighs and biceps are. I am literally having to haul myself up the stairs using the banister, and on the way down I step as gingerly as a granny with a new hip. I have been gymming, folks, and it has turned me into a laughing stock. Well, Tim laughs at me, and points, and occasionally slaps the sore bits and then snatches his hand back quick-as-a-flash when I glare at him. And last night we went out for Japanese (in Japan Town--dinky) with our friends Grover and Carolyn and they laughed at me, too. Hmmph.
I joined the fancy-pants gym down the road in February in an attempt to hang on to the residual muscle definition left from my days at the AUT gym in Northcote, working out with my trainer, Sophie. What with throwing in the job and travelling in Europe and then driving across the US eating cheeseburgers and twisty fries, there wasn't a heck of a lot of definition left, but I determined to keep it. And so began my relationship with the elliptical machine, on which I spin aimlessly for half an hour at a time, while catching up on the latest from Angelina and Brad. A couple of days ago I decided to get myself moving for real--in an exercise class. As a member of the fancy-pants gym, I get into group exercise classes for free (you know, except for the astronomical monthly fee I pay for the privilege of crossing the threshold of Gym Fancypants) and I love a deal, so that was another part of my motivation. The third key factor was realising I had not set foot in an exercise class since buggering my knee at an aerobics class nine years and four knee operations ago. It was time to kill that phobia.
I chose a class called Strength and Sculpt, billed as a non-threatening way to tone and build core stability through the use of bands and balls. I did 15 minutes on the elliptical to warm up and arrived in the studio 5 minutes before the start of class to find all floor space claimed by aggressively beautiful people, bar a sliver of space right near the front. Of course. I found myself a step, three sets of free weights, and a squishy ball thing with a flat plastic base. While I was doing this, I noticed the deathly still of the studio and the fixed way in which most classmates were checking themselves out in the mirrors. I also noted, not for the first time, how big were the rocks adorning most women's ring fingers, and how well groomed they were for people about to sweat to excess.
So, the instructor, a sinewy button of a girl, plugged in her microphone and that terrible be-boppy tinny aerobics music that must be created solely for use in gyms began to throb. I choked back the giggle that always erupts when I hear that music and started to move it, move it. Oh, and did I mention the heavily pregnant woman who glided into place just in front of me as the be-bopping reached its first crescendo? She was mammothly pregnant and pushing those weights around like they were matchboxes. I immediately loathed her.
Thus motivated, I started my first post-knee disaster exercise class with a hiss and a roar and much waving of arms. Bicep curls, tricep dips, side-stretchy moves meant to define the abs, all of that was fine. But when the squats began, with the attendant bum-clenching and knee-grating, I wanted to take a breather. I couldn't of course, because of the pregnant lady, bouncing away like a scolding, just in front of me. By this stage, I had that weird jelly feeling in my thighs, the wibble wobble named 'fatigue' in my calves, but still I moved it, slightly off time, lagging behind the beat. I stumbled a little as we lunge-marched our way up and down the room three times, and was smart enough to slow my pace a bit, but the other exercisers ignored the instructor's invitation to take a breather if needed, so I ignored it too. Above all, I didn't want the pregnant lady to win.
Happily, I can report that I made it to the end of the 50-minute class without incident--knee intact, dignity intact, amen. I took one last haughty glance at the pregnant lady--like the lunatic I apparently am becoming--and strode off home, thinking, ha showed her! Showoffy soon-to-be-mother with her huge diamonds and designer gym gear. Grumble, grumble.
Smug I was. And yet, I suspect she is able to climb and descend stairs without support today, belly and all.