Scaerobics

Aerobics terrify me. 

My limp excuse is that I was raised in the late seventies/early eighties when Olivia Newton John donned an eyewateringly tight electric blue leotard and matching head-band and ankle warmers and threatened the very existence of us more lumpy females.

Then, last week, I walked into my local gym at just the wrong moment, and the receptionist made the assumption I was there for “Fit for Life”. 

I like to think it’s because I look like the kind of person who might very well do aerobics should they so choose.

“Alright then,” I said.

I was nervous about my foot, following the major op last July.

But that turned out to be a minor consideration compared with the disability issue I discovered once the class started.  With the vintage disco music pumping and our tiny instructor barking out the names of moves that I had never heard of, I discovered that my brain-limb coordination was flat-lining. 

Luckily I was tucked away at the very back of the hall so nobody could see my ungainly flailing. Until, that is, the instructor shouted “TURN!” and suddenly I was right in front of everybody else.

I pinched myself, but sadly did not wake up.  Meaning this was reality, rather than a recurring nightmare.

I continued to stumble left when she yelled “RIGHT” and vice versa.

At the end, one of the other women suggested I might like to go home and watch YouTube videos of basic aerobics moves to get the hang.

But even after all that, I am going back next time.

I work as a teacher of Latin, and it’s healthy for me to experience the confusion of being confronted with a new unfamiliar language.

S’pose I ought to do my homework too.  YouTube, here I come.