Last night I attended my fist water aerobics class in, I don’t know, almost a year. Most of the same folks were still there from last summer.
None of them appeared to be any fitter than they were last summer. That was both a little disturbing and comforting.
My favorite instructor was teaching. I’d been working out in the pool on my own all week. I was so ready for this.
I was so not ready for this.
After the first few runs/jumps/kicks down the pool and back, my legs were on fire.
I wanted to limp out to a deck chair and cry after 10 minutes, but I am a pretty competitive person, so there was no way I was going to quit.
Especially since the 70-year-old lady next to me had told me she’s walked two miles on the treadmill before class.
It’s on now, old lady. There’s no way I’m punking out in front of SuperGranny.
So I pushed on through, trying to concentrate on the 70s rock tunes that were blaring through the speakers.
Thank you, Baybee Jeebus, for sending me Steve Perry.
As our peppy, former-cheerleader, class instructor was barking out orders, I closed my eyes and jammed along with Journey.
Downhill ski and twist, four times…
“Any way you want it, that’s the way you need it…”
Kick to the front, four times…
“She loves to laugh, she loves to sing, she does everything…”
Kick to the back, four times…
“She loves to move, she loves to groove, she loves the lovin’ thing”
Frog jumps, four times…
“All night, all night, oh every night, hold tight, hold tight, oh baby hold tight…”
And I did. I held tight. I made it.
By the grace of hot guitar licks and my own determination, I held my own against a woman twice my age who had already done a workout. Yay for me and my pathetic little baby steps toward fitness.
And thanks, Steve Perry. You are full of the awesome.
