One down, seven more to go.

Picture this, I’m drunk, dressed in something cute with my high heels on, burning up the dance floor with all kinds of enthusiasm for roughly four to five songs in a row, with maybe a break as I switch dance partners, go to the bar for a rest and some water, or make a quick run to the bathroom to wipe the sweat from my brow (who am I kidding, from my entire body…bah!).  Put that activity on repeat over a span of five hours and I will emerge from that experience with sore feet, perhaps some muscle tenderness in my thighs where I perhaps, dropped it like it was hot one too many times, but otherwise, I feel great.

 

Take some of those same moves, subtract the alcohol and high heels, put me in some yoga pants, a sports bra, and an oversized tee-shirt; instead of a dance floor, toss me onto the padded flooring at the fitness studio up the street and then dial 9-1-1 because I’m going to be gasping for air, clutching my aching sides, and wondering what in the hell I was thinking trying to take a dance aerobics class at my age.  What gives?  I can usually dance the pants of most folks at the club but in the fitness studio?  I’m stumbling over my feet as I am somewhat lightheaded with exhaustion. There’s also my loss of coordination as I can’t seem to find the proper beat to save my life.

 

Kidding! I’m kidding here.  At least about being lightheaded.  Seriously, as I enjoyed my first dance aerobic class last night, I was indeed pondering – while messing up the choreography something fierce, perhaps a bit too much pondering and not enough paying attention to how the move was supposed to go – why is it that this same activity done on a hard, sometimes concrete floor, with 4 to 6 inch heels on, while under the influence of a couple STIFF drinks, doesn’t seem to cause me as much stress as it does when someone calls it “exercise”?

It made me think of riding my bike as a kid. I would spend hours spinning around the neighborhood with the crew. HOURS at a stretch where we would maybe stop for a few minutes here and there to grab some water or discuss where we were going next. But now plop me on a stationary bike or goodness forbid, put me in a spin class, and I’m about ready to pass out after five minutes.  Or how about walking? I can stroll around the city, take walking tours through ancient ruins, wonder lose through a nature preserve with not a care as to how far I’ve walked. I may eventually get tired, but eh, no big deal. Change that trail to a treadmill. UGH. My legs stop wanting to cooperate. In fact, they will openly rebel within minutes.

All of that aside, I’m glad I went. Tomorrow it’s yoga-robics.  I have the feeling my “downward facing dog” is never going to be the same ;-).