As a kid, jumping on a trampoline offers an escape from reality. While on that shiny, magical, bouncy black surface you are given a glimpse into a world where you can fly, flip and laugh until your sides hurt.
As an adult, it will make your sides hurt all right. Along with your thighs, arms, ass, fingernails, hair, pride...The same equipment that brought such joy to my childhood has a way of making this 12 week post partum mama face the very harsh reality that this body ain't what it used to be. (That is saying a lot, as it didn't start off overly strong or athletic.) 28 is the new...60? Sure feels that way.
In an attempt to get into shape for wedding season- my own and a handful of others- I decided to adopt a new workout routine. So I sat down at the computer, carb loaded snack in hand, and spent several weeks researching my various options. Pilates? too expensive. Yoga? too trendy. Running? hahahahah...have we met?! Of course I could utilize the gym that I pay yearly membership fees towards. But its close proximity to the mall is too tempting. Plus I have a 0.00241% chance of running into "Logan*", so why risk it? So I signed my ass up for trampoline aerobics! And to tell the truth, it is kinda fun. Really tough. But kinda fun.
My first class I showed up early. Really early. In fact. the website suggested arriving 15 minutes early "as spots fill up fast" so I came 20 minutes early. You don't get to be teachers pet by showing up late and sitting in the back of class. I prepared for class by wearing my two tightest fitting sports bras- together- to offer a shred of support to my newly ample chest. I also wanted adequate time to familiarize myself with the trampoline park- a huge warehouse with a giant arcade, wall-to-wall trampolines, and a foam pit. When I arrived to class to check in they informed me that in three years of hosting classes, they have never had a full class. In fact, a typical class size is two-three people. The instructor being one of them. Score! I just landed myself an hour with a personal trainer for $7!
The first class went well. The instructor, Giggly Girl, was a lively, petite mother of a young child and she completely understood if I took frequent breaks or needed to modify the exercises to fit my tolerance level. I was sweating like an addict going through withdrawals after just several minutes there. And after 15 minutes in my breathing mirrored that of a chronic smoker taking the stairs because the escalator is being serviced. But I pushed through the aches and pains and made it through 30 minutes of rigorous exercise. Problem is, the class is an hour.
Good thing I have a newborn to blame shit on. "Oh damn, I would stay but my baby needs me. Right. This. Second. If I stay a minute longer I risk her having abandonment issues for the rest of her life." If you ask me, 30 minutes of exercise for my first attempt post-baby ain't half bad. But if you ask Drill-Sergeant, the instructor on day 2 of class, 30 minutes is pitiful, embarrassing, and makes me a sorry excuse for a human being. Shit just got real. Unlike my first instructor, Drill-Sergeant lives and breathes fitness. He is involved in track, football and soccer. He is a 16 year old high school boy who owns me for an hour every Thursday. He scares me. I told him I would try my best to make it the entire hour. He told me I would make it.
"Thank you- that is my hope."
"No, you WILL make it. Nobody does a half a class with me."
"Yeah, but I just had a baby."
"I have two fractured vertebrae and just pulled my hamstring."
Shit. You win, Drill-Sergeant. Where is Giggly Girl? I miss her.
The truth is class was infinitely harder on day two but I felt more rewarded and invigorated when I left my beat down by The Sarge. Could it be that I actually like to workout? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I think it comes down to one thing: if I am going to leave my Sweet P for anything, even just one minute, I want it to be worth my while. And I know that Drill-Sergeant is committed to making me feel that every Thursday I have done something worthwhile. AKA painful and exhausting.
It is a damn good thing tomorrow is a Tuesday.
*real name? Wolverine. Don't ask.
No comments:
Post a Comment