January 29, 2010
I have a sneaking suspicion that The Universe does not approve of my running. She didn’t seem to have a beef with my walking, bike riding, my wii fitting or my step aerobics, but The Big U definitely has a problem with the running. As most of you are aware, I have never been a runner. In the past, I have chosen to do whatever it takes to avoid it, except possibly in the early 80’s when there was a neighborhood game of Kiss Tag going on, and my cute neighbor was playing. For some reason, on those particular nights when I was “It”, I could run like Prefontaine. Except, of course, when He was “It”. Then I somehow always managed to either trip over a stick or get a massive leg cramp.
So I am fairly certain that The Big U is trying to send me a message, and the first way she chose to send me that message was by way of my knees. Basically, my knees are completely rebelling against the entire idea of running. They’ve gone from just an annoying pain, to just deciding to fold up on me when I’m simply walking across my living room. I went to see my Doctor this week, and he has referred me to an Orthopedist and told me in the meantime, no running on cement and to try running on my treadmill. I explained to him that I had recently tried just that, and it failed to turn out well. As a matter of fact, if someone had been videotaping it I am sure it would now be one of the most watched You Tube videos of all time, since it involved not only a flying telephone, water bottle and remote control, but also an elaborate fall and subsequent filing cabinet slam by some idiot who forgot to attach the safety clip to her pants.
Anyway, he gave me this “advice” on Tuesday, and on Wednesday I met my running group for a run on the cement, because I am a rebel and that’s how I roll. (And I may indeed be rolling once I completely eff myself up and get my very own tricked out mobility scooter. Bad news with that scenario is that I will have severe butt growth due to not being able to exercise. Good news is that nobody will be able to see it since I will be sitting on it while I roll around all day.) Since I chose to ignore my doctor and go running anyway, The Universe got pissy and decided to make me run right through a dog turd that must have come from some freakishly giant Marmaduke/Horse crossbreed. In my opinion, if The Universe wanted me to run, she would have had me step into a pile of something more pleasant than poo. Perhaps money, wine, or Paul Rudd would have done the trick. THAT would have been positive reinforcement. Unbelievably huge pile of poo? Not so much.
Since today was a non-running group day, I agreed to do something completely unlike me. Yes, even more surprising than running. I decided to go to a Jazzercise class. I will now pause for a moment so you can all laugh at me…………………………………………………………….Okay. Are you done? I know, I know, it is a funny image. I GET IT! When one of my readers (the lovely Melissa Bland) invited me to join her, I laughed as well. I had an image in my mind of those old ladies on TV doing Sit And Be Fit, and since I didn’t own a pastel leotard, leg warmers or white tights, I almost said “no”, but in an uncharacteristic moment of agreeability, I decided to give it a try. While it was actually a really fun workout, I am certain that a video of me in the act of Jazzercising would surpass even my top-ranking treadmill fall on You Tube.
Suffice it to say that today I discovered what I have always suspected to be true: I have no rhythm. Sure, I had my first clue back in ’87 when Dirty Dancing came out and I painstakingly tried (and failed?) to recreate some of Baby’s moves, but until today, I always held onto the dream that I was an awesome dancer. Well, unfortunately I realized that I am a mess, and that I am not so good at the whole “Do what I do” premise of an exercise class. I quickly understood that I am not a good mimic, and at some points, when I just couldn’t seem to even slightly recreate what our instructor was doing, I would just go into a more sedate version of the “Elaine Dance” and do my own thing.
When I talked to the instructor after class and told her this, she said that my crazy dance was fine, as long as I kept moving. Say what? Have I actually found a place where my inability to follow directions will be accepted (as long as I stay in the back so as not to distract the other participants)? A place where, if I’m just not feeling the side-step lunges, I can instead break into Baby Houseman’s merengue? Indeed, I think I have. At least until I get too carried away and try the big “I’ve had The Time Of My Life” finale, and try to jump into the instructor’s arms. At that point, I think I may be asked to leave.
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