Colours of Cattiz was doubtful there could be a worse exercise class than the one described yesterday. (Short version: I knocked a stationary bicycle onto my leg in the middle of a Spin class.) I’ll let you be the judge of whether the next experience is worse. In my mind, it is. But everything is relevant. The third and LAST ever class is so embarrassing that I don’t even know if I can post it. Y’all, it is seriously that bad. I don’t think anyone has ever humiliated themselves more. Ever. In the history of the UNIVERSE.
As you can imagine, the Spin fiasco became legendary around the office. Lisa would tell the tale to an incredulous audience, gasping for breath from too much laughing. Later she would add the punchline: “And she had a bruise the size of a MUFFIN on her leg for three months!” Soon I was approached by many co-workers to attend many different activities with them: rock-wall climbing, Hip Hop Funk (NO), Salsa dancing. This went on for over a year. I think they all wanted a spectacular Jjiraffe story. I said no way to all and sundry.
Until Darcy and I met and settled into domestic bliss. In other words, we started cooking and eating a lot. I put on a few pounds and my jogging routine was curtailed so I had more time to shop at the grocery store, where I bought things like capers and spaghetti and Bibolis and all sorts of fattening love foods. So when my colleague Elizabeth approached me about a new class, I was vulnerable. This time, though, I would go in prepared. I peppered her with many questions: was this a beginner class? Could the least athletic person in the world get through this class? Was there heavy machinery that I could knock over onto my leg? The answers to all these questions were satisfactory.
Elizabeth thus brought me into class number two: Introduction to Kickboxing. I can hear you groaning: of all the classes, Jjiraffe, why THAT? I can see you thinking of all the possible scenarios in which I could wreak havoc on myself: I could get kicked in the head, I could knock down a punching bag. And I had thought of those scenarios myself and solutions to avoid them. I would hit the punching bag really lightly. I would have super aware senses to protect me from others’ flying limbs.
I was a little intimidated when the instructor, who looked Taye Diggs, if Taye Diggs had been an Army Ranger for 10 years, introduced himself. This time though, I wouldn’t pretend like I knew what I was doing. I raised my hand and said: “I’ve never been to a kickboxing class before!”
Turns out, that was a big mistake.
Taye was very intrigued by my green status. He wanted to teach someone completely fresh to the subject, in hopes that they would develop excellent form and be a kickass kickboxer. It became clear right away, though, that kickboxing was NOT the sport for me. What HAD intrigued me about it was that you use your legs a lot. I have a lot of lower body strength, like most women. In terms of my upper body strength, I think I am in the bottom 1% of everyone in the world. I have narrow shoulders, small bones and limited endurance. Turns out, that particular kickboxing class was 80% arm punches and 20% leg kicks.
Taye, in his efforts to mold me, pretty much left his class to itself. (“Partner UP, everyone! Practice your uppercuts now! Now, roundhouse kicks!” I was Taye’s partner, up front and center.) Which meant everyone was paying attention to my every kick, punch and jab, all of which were terrible, even the kicks. I could tell Taye was getting frustrated, but his method to try to improve my uppercuts was to increase the frequency and repetition of them. “Aim HERE! Punch THERE!” he kept yelling. Always the people pleaser, I tried to keep up the best I could.
Ten minutes in, the exertion was starting to take its toll on my gentle body. Have you ever run really fast, so fast you thought your insides might come out of your body, starting with your lungs? That’s what I felt like. Then, suddenly, bile started to rise. I realized I was going to hurl: I had the watery jowls. How could I make my escape in the midst of performing for the whole class and strict drill sargent Taye? I tried to say excuse me, but had to put my hand over my mouth to prevent the vomiting. I ran out of the room as fast as I could and made it to the trash can outside the hall, whereupon I heaved my guts out. Unfortunately, the trashcan was clearly visible to the kickboxing room. I looked up to see every single person in the class staring at me in horror. Including Mr. Diggs. So I did what brave Sir Robin would do. I bravely ran away.
Then I made a horrible realization: my bag with my wallet and keys was back inside the kickboxing room! I was going to have to go back in there and subject myself to total humiliation to get it. I couldn’t do it. So I trudged down the hall to the front desk (because of course my cell phone was in the bag) and asked them if I could make a local call. Luckily they relented.
I called Darcy and begged him to come help me. Fortunately, it was early in our relationship when he would do pretty much anything for me. (Behold the power of Biboli pizzas!) He boldly marched up there, grabbed my purse and waved at Elizabeth, cheekily. I will never forget that.
Monday, the office eagerly waited for an update from Elizabeth. They were not disappointed.
Seriously, I don’t know if I can post Class #3. Are these cheering you up and making you laugh? Are they making your morning a little brighter? If the answer is yes from enough readers, I GUESS I’ll man up and post it. But it is seriously mortifying. There are times when I remember it randomly and cringe. Still. Ten years later!