I arrive in Florida to find sunshine, palm trees and the unsettling news that my mother-in-law has an addiction. She ever so casually mentions that she attends 3 to 4 exercise classes a day. A DAY. And we all know that obsessive exercising is a gateway addiction to heroin abuse.
And because my mother-in-law is very convincing, I quickly find myself at a 7:50 AM yoga class, surrounded by some very fit seniors. But I refuse to be intimidated by their toned muscles, agility and endurance.
Despite my lack of exercise for the past 8 months (unless nursing, yelling and eating candy are now considered cardio), I am confident I can kick some yoga ass. And thankfully, I do. The instructor actually asks me if I am a yoga instructor. Yay me! Let’s go get a latte!!
Wait, we’re staying for something called Cardio Sculpt. I’m strong on the cardio. But the sculpting is going a bit awry. When did weights get so heavy? How can everyone lift this bar? Is mine heavier? I must have a heavier bar. Now we’re tossing a ball back and forth. This is ridiculously hard. I keep dropping it. My mother-in-law brings me a smaller ball. Back to the insane weights. Why is no one else sweating? The woman in front of me is twice my age for gosh sakes. I really need a latte.
And it doesn’t stop at Cardio Sculpt.
We whirl around and gyrate to the music. The song ends. One of the women in the class comes up to Rick and me.”Where is your mother? She’s always at this class. Are you guys keeping up?”
Music starts again. We shimmy and shake our booties. The song ends. Another woman approaches us. “Where are you kids from? Do you really have four kids? You look like newlyweds.”
More music. More shaking and twirling and sashaying. The song ends. A man says hello to us. “Your parents must be thrilled to have you here. I hear you have twins. That’s so wonderful. You look like teenagers!”
By the end of the class, I’ve never felt so young in my life. Not so fit. But very young. I’m really warming up to this Zumba in Boca thing.
And then because my mother-in-law suggested it, we stay for some kind of fitness strength training class. I scarf down a bag of cinnamon graham cracker sticks in the bathroom between the classes to avoid some kind of embarrassing fainting spell and then brace myself for the pain. The weights have gotten even heavier. And that damn ball makes another appearance. And then crippling stomach crunches.
The instructor yells out, “I need more energy! Smile! I’m not giving you an enema!”
And finally, mercifully, the class is over.
I’m pretty sure at this point I won’t have to seek help for an exercise addiction. So that’s obviously a major relief.