Three times a week, I take dance exercise classes with a dashing Roberto C. and a spunky Loretta L. These classes are usually full - easily forty to fifty women not so easily jammed into a room meant for twenty, with a smattering of awkward men, usually grinning widely in the back row while they try to catch up with the instructor's next move. A perfect arena for people watching.
It is no secret that an exercise class is a hierarchy. The toned, fit women who only wear their sports bra and Lycra pants (do you just leave your shirt in the car? at home? Do you even buy shirts?), are in the front row. They're the ones who got there 10 minutes early, after dropping their toned, fit kids downstairs with the toned, fit babysitter in the play center. They aggressively stretch outside the fitness room, while the other class apologetically completes their cool down and slinks out the back door. They know the moves even before the instructor calls them out, and they hug the instructor afterwards and make plans for their next juice bar date. They look tan in December, their abs are concave and they never have a hair out of place. They glare at their image in the mirror - "Work harder! Be hotter!" - their eyes seem to scream.
The middle of the room is reserved for the less toned, but still moderately with-it women. These women wear their sports gear, but their imperfections show - a love handle here, an old T-shirt there, a tennis shoe with frayed laces down there. They get the moves, but not always the first time, and they smile sheepishly at each other when they make a mistake. These women's mantra: "It's okay to make a mistake - all that matters is that you keep moving to get your workout..."
It is no secret that an exercise class is a hierarchy. The toned, fit women who only wear their sports bra and Lycra pants (do you just leave your shirt in the car? at home? Do you even buy shirts?), are in the front row. They're the ones who got there 10 minutes early, after dropping their toned, fit kids downstairs with the toned, fit babysitter in the play center. They aggressively stretch outside the fitness room, while the other class apologetically completes their cool down and slinks out the back door. They know the moves even before the instructor calls them out, and they hug the instructor afterwards and make plans for their next juice bar date. They look tan in December, their abs are concave and they never have a hair out of place. They glare at their image in the mirror - "Work harder! Be hotter!" - their eyes seem to scream.
The middle of the room is reserved for the less toned, but still moderately with-it women. These women wear their sports gear, but their imperfections show - a love handle here, an old T-shirt there, a tennis shoe with frayed laces down there. They get the moves, but not always the first time, and they smile sheepishly at each other when they make a mistake. These women's mantra: "It's okay to make a mistake - all that matters is that you keep moving to get your workout..."
And of course, who can forget (although we often do) the back corners of the room, squeezed in with the leftover exercise equipment are the others: the latecomers, the confused, the untidy, the unaware, the uncoordinated and of course, the men. These are the ones the instructor walks around to check on, demonstrate for and sometimes dance with if they aren't too frustrating. They don't have time to smile sheepishly because their mistakes are on a grander scale, usually involving multi-person collisions. When the instructor asks everyone to face the back wall, they freeze: "holy s&#*@ there's a mirror back here," thinking everyone is watching them demolish the steps, when really, everyone just wants to turn back around to restore the natural order of the universe.
If that doesn't convince someone to go to the gym, I don't know what will.
1 comment:
How could you not share which group you are in??
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