Let's Get Physical

I ran across this post the other day and it made me laugh. Years later, I still remember this class. And I really like TRX. Now. 

Halfway through my first group workout in the West, the cute little instructor says, "Put your heels on the straps, now lift your butt. Lift, Lift, LIFT."

TRX at its best.

I hate the word hate. But I hated every minute of this workout, for several reasons. I’m out of shape, out of breath (I can no longer blame it on altitude), and my patience is running thin. Forget the burpees and mountain climbers; I stick with Tabata squats until I can breathe again. I want a donut, a cookie, and for heaven’s sake, a side of beef.

And I want Yvi, Sheri, and Mark, my fearless fitness instructors in Texas. Throwing myself on the floor and kicking the walls is not an option for a woman of my age. But it's a fleeting thought. 

Why do I put myself through this? I love the outdoors—all outdoor activity. Fresh air and activity renew my mind, body, and spirit. After six months of no group exercise, I'm weak. Weak as a kitten. During class, I have a sour disposition. I'm the dark cloud hanging over the happy group. Shut it, instructor, just shut your pie hole.

Finally, the hour from hell is over. I stick out like a sore thumb, no doubt. She walks over to me, tries to smile, and asks, "How did you like the class?" Dang it. I was straight up, told her I hated every minute of it. I tried to smile but wanted to cry. Like a baby. Ever the cheerful soul, she reminds me, "But you're here." Yep, every bitter pound of me. 

This salad isn't gonna eat itself.