How (not) to hate the gym

When I joined the gym a few months ago, I didn't expect too much. I figured it would be boring. I figured there'd be days I had to drag myself there. I didn't imagine I'd be getting Biggest Loser 'numbers' in my weight loss each week.

I was right about all these things.

I joined what I fondly refer to as 'an old lady gym'. There are two in Fibrotown. Those places where you do a three minute warm-up, a 30-minute circuit and a 28 second stretch at the end. Very much the drive-through version of a gym. No posing, no pontificating between sets, no need for a towel to wipe the sweat off the machine when you're done.

I was clinical in my approach to this. I know myself. I know that while I could go to a gym that offers everything from Zumba to yoga to spinning to tai chi, I would not indulge in any of these classes. I do not have time. I need to get in, lift a weight, get out. I already had a well-established walking routine under way. I needed some toning to go with it.

I confess to being a little concerned on day one. There's something disconcerting about going to a gym where nobody, not even the instructors, looks as though they go to a gym. But it's a lovely, friendly place and I figured that my days of looking as though I go to the gym are well behind me anyway, so I persisted.

I did a Bio Age test, which put my age at two years below my actual age. Good place to start. I'll be 21 before I know it. I weighed myself (and gasped and spent the rest of the session trying to work out the weights of my shoes, socks and tracksuit pants so that I could deduct them from the figure to make myself feel better). And I surprised myself by going back. Again. And again. And again.

Twice a week. For 10 weeks. And then the school holidays struck.

It was at this point that I realised something surprising. I missed it. The gym, I mean. I missed it. It is boring. There are days when I have to drag myself there. My 'numbers' are not very impressive at all. But the pay-off isn't in the bio-age or the weight loss or even the health benefits (and I do feel fitter and stronger). For me, it's all about the calming effect of exercise. The Post-Old-Lady-Gym high. It's there, and it's real, and a stress-head like me really needs it.

Apparently, I'm a convert.

[image: how cool is this decal from AppleStyx/etsy - I want!]


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Just in case you thought you could dance...

Sometimes the Universe conspires to send you a message. Usually a timely one. I received one today. It reminded me that while my mind is capable of wondrous feats, my body is not what it was. Don't get me wrong, it goes okay, but...

Last night, Mum and I attended a 'dancing thing' at the local Entertainment Centre. I call it a 'dancing thing' because when she asked me to escort her many weeks ago she said it was a 'dancing thing'. When my husband asked me what it was I was going to, I answered a 'dancing thing'. It was written on the calendar as 'dancing thing with mum'. As it turns out, the words were prophetic.

We rolled up to discover a full foyer and lots of kids. Unusual, but we were quite excited that so many Fibrotown folk had turned out for a 'dancing thing'. The program made it all sound very exciting. We were there to see 'The Next Step: Do it On the Dance Floor', featuring the director and artists from Dein Perry's 'Tap Dogs', as well as contestants from Australia's So You Think You Can Dance. I loved 'Tap Dogs' and while I've never watched SYTYCD, Mum loves it. We were happy. We had a glass of wine and climbed up to our seats in row G.

The show began. Five minutes later, we were checking our tickets in consternation - were we there for the right night? Tickets confirmed we were. Why then were we watching what was obviously a local dance school's annual concert? The numbers of children in the foyer suddenly became clear - most of them were in the show. "I think it's just an entree," I muttered. Five numbers later, we were beginning to wonder.

Admittedly, it was entertaining enough in its own way. Interpretive, modern dance takes on a whole new meaning when it's performed by 15-year-olds and randomly placed in front of you. There was a standout little girl, in the front row, in the hip hop group - and one, in the back row, whose worried little face immediately caught my attention. She was one step behind the group the whole time, thrusting her tiny hips right when everyone else went left. I loved her.

Watching as the show unfolded, ballet following hip hop following a rather lengthly piece from Mary Poppins, I felt sympathy for my Dad, and my brother, subjected to years and years of watching other people's children perform whilst waiting for a two-minute burst from one of us at the annual ballet concert. I think I may have even perfected my own version of the concert face.

At the end of the display, we were told we'd been watching [insert name of local dance school]. At no other time had this been mentioned. It was like those infuriating moments when you're listening to the radio and you have to wait half an hour for the back announcement of what you were listening to.

After a short interval, during which I contemplated the fact that the 'dancing thing' was proving to be as vague as its title, the real show began. And I sat there with my 66-year-old mother and watched 12 guys - seven dancers, one singer, one rapper, three band members - tear up the stage. It was brilliant. Loud, hip-hoppy, brilliant. There was even a tap-off. I love a tap-off. It's like Fight Club, only with less blood. Watching the dancers, I was struck by the absolute joy with which they approached their work. They were so damn happy to be there. They were dancing like no-one was watching, only we were all watching their every move. Complete assurance. Complete freedom.

It was the kind of moment that could see a person go and sign up for dance classes, 20 years after their last dance class.

Fortunately, the Universe was watching out for me. This afternoon, Fam Fibro went to the local aquatic centre for some swimming and waterslide shenanigans. I attempted a few laps. Very slow laps. I managed 250 metres. Fifty metres of freestyle. Two hundred metres of breaststroke. Even as I type this, I can feel my muscles protesting. I will wake tomorrow to sore thighs, sore arms... and all from a 'low-impact' form of exercise.

I don't think I'll be attempting a 'dancing thing' any time soon.

{image: streetswing.com}