Day off work today, tra la, tra la, so I slept in a little bit, did a teensy bit of writing and then went to the gym, feeling pretty durned chipper. Until I saw that Batshit Crazy Lady was leading the 10am sculpting class. I stumbled into her spin class once a couple of months ago after a particularly grueling work day, and if I hadn’t been a spaghetti noodle by the end of it, I might just have dismounted and slapped her. She pretended we were racing a stage of the Tour de France and gave a running commentary on each hill and valley, complete with stats on the leaders and trivia from her own experience watching the Tour in person. So-and-so is very charming, some racers drink scooners of beer at the end of the day, she has autographed t-shirts from riders etc, etc. We had a competition to see who would win the imaginary green shirt for getting to the top of the highest imaginary hill. I stopped and had a pint of cider at an imaginary pub.
So today my nice gentle sculpting class began with a musical prelude to the 2008 Beijing Olympics—apparently they released one of the songs this week to get people in the mood. It didn’t get me in the mood for my class, however—I actually groaned out loud and had to pretend to be clearing my throat so as not to offend Batshit Crazy Lady, who apparently has no idea just how aggravating she is. We did seven sets of push ups, we had to do squats in time to that nasty song about ‘lady lumps,’ we waved big heavy bars around for the benefit of our triceps—which, we learned, are the size of a stick of string cheese—and got a lecture about skin elasticity. "You don't have to do everything I am doing," she said as she launched into another set of push ups. "I am your sculpting waitress; I am just making suggestions."
By the end I was thinking that perhaps she is some sort of evil genius, because she makes people so mad they keep lifting those weights just to concentrate on something other than her chirping commentary.
And then she tried to convince us to follow her over to the other studio for her spin class, starting in half an hour.
“Just consider it,” she said, as damp women with strands of hair flopping in their mouths openly groaned at the thought. “Well, maybe next week.”
Showing posts with label gymming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gymming. Show all posts
Friday, August 10, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, May 21, 2007
That's entertainment?
I just got back from the gym all steamed up, not from the cursed elliptical machine, but from the bizarre Dateline MSNBC program I watched while climbing my way to gluteal improvement. It's called To Catch A Predator and I'd heard about it, in the way you hear murmurings about troubling, exploitative television, but I'd never watched it before. I didn't have much choice tonight because the screen attached to my machine was broken--I couldn't change the channel, and I couldn't turn it off, and I couldn't even get rid of the closed captioning. So I watched it, like you watch a snake swallow a mouse on a nature program. Not because you are enjoying it, but because there is something horribly compelling about seeing base instinct at work.
I will spare you the details cos they are just horrendous/absurd (in one case involving Cool Whip, an American whipped cream substitute, and a cat), but here's the basic outline: men were lured to a Florida house to meet with a 14-year-old boy or girl--depending on their preference--they had encountered in an online chat room, for sexual purposes. But ba-ba-ba-boom, they weren't meeting a 14-year-old at all, but some super-tanned blow-dry guy with a camera team.
He met them as they wandered the kitchen/lounge, looking for the child they'd hoped to meet, directed them to sit on a stool at a kitchen breakfast bar on which sat a plate of cookies and a vase of flowers, then interviewed them. At this point they did not know they were being filmed. He asked them if they had ever met children for sex before, and what in the heck did they think they were doing, and did they realise their behavior was unacceptable. And then he revealed his identity, just as two camera men came out of hiding. But that's not all, folks. Then he told them they were free to go--except when they got outside, police literally jumped from the bushes and pushed them to the ground. This was ostensibly for the benefit of concerned parents everywhere.
Now, I am not for a moment defending these men, ranging in age from 20 to 61, gay and straight, married and not, fathers and not. They were there to harm children, no doubt about it. But explain to me the public good that is achieved with this candid camera-style sting? (The men's faces were not obscured, their names were revealed, their personal lives sliced open.)
Result? The men's families are humiliated, their careers potentially destroyed, their anonymity at the supermarket gone. The men are arrested and charged and yes, put out of action for a brief time, but is that enough? Where's the follow-up care/treatment/prevention? I can't imagine Dateline MSNBC feels any responsibility towards these guys and their families. Forgetting that, is it an appropriate role for me, as a television viewer, to judge men whose lives I know nothing about, and who have been coerced into breaking the law by a television network which stands to profit from its trickery? Should that really be what passes for entertainment--and it is presented as entertainment; the news-value window-dressing is fooling no-one.
I try not to get lathered up about social issues just before bed, but I left the gym feeling quite nauseous.
I will spare you the details cos they are just horrendous/absurd (in one case involving Cool Whip, an American whipped cream substitute, and a cat), but here's the basic outline: men were lured to a Florida house to meet with a 14-year-old boy or girl--depending on their preference--they had encountered in an online chat room, for sexual purposes. But ba-ba-ba-boom, they weren't meeting a 14-year-old at all, but some super-tanned blow-dry guy with a camera team.
He met them as they wandered the kitchen/lounge, looking for the child they'd hoped to meet, directed them to sit on a stool at a kitchen breakfast bar on which sat a plate of cookies and a vase of flowers, then interviewed them. At this point they did not know they were being filmed. He asked them if they had ever met children for sex before, and what in the heck did they think they were doing, and did they realise their behavior was unacceptable. And then he revealed his identity, just as two camera men came out of hiding. But that's not all, folks. Then he told them they were free to go--except when they got outside, police literally jumped from the bushes and pushed them to the ground. This was ostensibly for the benefit of concerned parents everywhere.
Now, I am not for a moment defending these men, ranging in age from 20 to 61, gay and straight, married and not, fathers and not. They were there to harm children, no doubt about it. But explain to me the public good that is achieved with this candid camera-style sting? (The men's faces were not obscured, their names were revealed, their personal lives sliced open.)
Result? The men's families are humiliated, their careers potentially destroyed, their anonymity at the supermarket gone. The men are arrested and charged and yes, put out of action for a brief time, but is that enough? Where's the follow-up care/treatment/prevention? I can't imagine Dateline MSNBC feels any responsibility towards these guys and their families. Forgetting that, is it an appropriate role for me, as a television viewer, to judge men whose lives I know nothing about, and who have been coerced into breaking the law by a television network which stands to profit from its trickery? Should that really be what passes for entertainment--and it is presented as entertainment; the news-value window-dressing is fooling no-one.
I try not to get lathered up about social issues just before bed, but I left the gym feeling quite nauseous.
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