One of my thoughts upon moving to California was that I could use the transition to drop a few (well-earned) lbs. My Beloved has a company gym which has spousal privileges (snicker) and they offer a bevy of classes to pique your fitness interests. Since I’ve noticed that my cardiovascular condition has been somewhat lacking, I wanted to do something aerobic in nature. I actually have fond memories of aerobic classes from the 90’s, but those all seem to have been supplanted by Krav Maga or Cardio Kickboxing or HipHop Dance. And seriously, you DO NOT want to see a fat bald white man in his late 40’s bustin’ a hip hop move.
After looking over the schedule, I chose something almost as comical. Jazzercise. That’s right, bitches! Motherfuckin’ JAZZERCISE!!! I mistakenly thought this would be some sort of contemporary retelling of the genre, but I was woefully mistaken.
In walked Chris, our perky instructor. Based solely on her age, I had to check the door to see if she had brought her walker along. But sister was fit, fit, fit. Mostly because, as she shared with us, she has been teaching Jazzercise for 25 YEARS!!!
The first thing I noticed was that this room obviously employs funhouse mirrors to motivate you. Surely I have not actually let my body morph into something resembling an Idaho potato. But I pulled up my leg warmers, adjusted my braided Olivia Newton John headband and began doing my headrolls, shoulder rotations and other warm-ups, all the while pretending I was about to audition for So You Think You Can Dance.
I wasn’t really intimidated, since the small class seemed full of newcomers. Then in walked the willowy thin fella WEARING HIS JAZZERCISE T-SHIRT. Seriously. I would have been intimidated if I hadn’t fallen on the floor and laughed so hard I farted.
Chris introduced her prize pupil to the class and informed us that HE had been doing Jazzercise for 15 years, so if we had trouble following her, we could always watch him. Wiping away my tears and fanning my flatulence toward the skinny fit girl to my left, I prepared . . . to MOVE.
Chris was appropriately perky and had me wheezing like the fat old man I am in a matter of seconds. Soon, the sweat was pouring down my bald pate, with only my sparse eyebrows to fend off the torrent. Unsuccessfully I might add. My eyes began to sting as my lungs began to burn, which I’m sure is what caused me to falter on the choreography. And just as I was about to give up and go sit in the locker room and watch guys change clothes to get my heart rate up, I decided to watch Mr. Jazzercise himself.
OMG, he sucked! He was completely uncoordinated and graceless. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe I was . . . JAZZERCISING. I managed to make it through the hour without a cocktail or a coronary. And I realized that everyone else had taken the class in the spirit of good fun. We all sucked. But none of us cared. We bounced and stepped, sometimes heading the right direction, sometimes not. And yes, we even occasionally used our jazz hands.
Now I’m just waiting for the dryer to finish. I’m going to need that headband again tomorrow night.