Weighty Matters

Fitness instructors, I’ve found, are a fairly flighty bunch.  I’ve had four teachers in four years.

The yoga lady lasted the longest, but she left because she hated the way the floor smelled in our new room.  The Pilates guy just disappeared.  Actually, I wasn’t sorry he left, because, though I’m sure it was all innocent enough, he was a little too “hands on” to suit me.  The body toning trainer, who worked for the census bureau, got busy gearing up for next year’s census and had to give up her evening job.

So now I’m on number four, also body toning.

Each instructor has emphasized: “Listen to your own body.”  “It’s not a competition.”  “Don’t compare yourself to others.”

Sounds okay in theory, but aren’t we all constantly evaluating other people?  Their appearance, their intelligence, their personality, their size—as in, what size weights they use?  Our class spans the interval from three to eight pounds.  I fall somewhere in the middle at five pounds.

When the teacher announced we’d be doing our exercises slowly at the next session, the gal next to me, a veteran, warned me to bring three-pound weights.  I heeded her advice, but as class started they felt like feathers in my fingers, and I anticipated the session would be a breeze.  Sixty minutes later I was sprawled out on the mat and my three-pound weights felt like they were bolted to the floor.  Going through the same exercises we do every week, but doing them very slowly, is a killer.

I went home and collapsed.