I went to an exercise class the other day, because my work sponsored the existence of the class. We had a grant, we paid the instructor, we invited the people, et cetera. That’s the kind of thing we do.
Which obligates us to participate because…that’s the kind of thing we ought to do.
Okay.
Weights, yoga mat, upbeat music playing at about 140 beats per minute — exercise was on, and on high, and we start sweating.
“No problem,” I tell myself. “This is in the books…then I do the things I need to do, like laundry, dishes, spot clean the living room…”
My mental list seemed endless. My body ignored my mental list, because it was listening to the instructor, who has apparently told my body to do jumping jacks.
Somewhere in the teens, my body snapped my brain to attention with screams of, “She’s making us do jumping jacks!”
No amount of Timberlake can make me do this, I thought.
And then I leaked a little. (Thank heaven for black exercise pants.)
Nope, can’t lie about this stuff. Middle-aged ladies and the jumping, we don’t go well together. We are not a good match, a poor blend, a bad idea, thus we avoid all instances of the feet leaving the floor, only to land upon it once more; repeat.
No jumping. An unwritten rule.
Even after visiting the restroom moments before the jumping begins.
Even while sporting a Depends.
No jumping.
Yet!
There in the front of the overly populated, poorly ventilated, popcorn-ceiling’ed, no acoustics, needing-new-carpet facility, bounced a woman exuberantly yelling, “Gimme ten more!”
Finally — FINALLY — my brain stopped running the to-do’s to focus on this one singularity: the To-Don’t. Ever.
And we stopped jumping — “we” being my brain and body and ego and memories of joy.
Because who doesn’t love a trampoline?
But, nope. No jumping. It’s to be avoided.
As is the next exercise class. I’ll be really sick that day.
