My preferred location for boot camp is the Nordstrom shoe department in January. Since I have more fat cells than cash these days, I’m somewhat more likely to be at the one at my gym. Somewhat is the operative term because consistency is not a hobgoblin of my small mind. Rather it is an elusive state that bothers my mind not at all, but plays havoc with the rest of me. How easily small gains in strength and wind unravel when left untended for a couple of weeks and how hard it is the climb out of mire of sloth and face the music yet again. Fortunately, it is the type of music that is loud enough to cover most of my moans so as not to disturb the uber fit around me who don’t become winded and panicky during the warm-up.
“Take it at your own pace.” advises Christie or Kristi or Chrissie, as if I had a choice. Nonetheless it’s comforting to be publicly allowed to shamble along and I think that some of them really mean it. They’re the ones who offer modifications for those of us trying to avoid arthroscopic surgery or just passing out. The others just say it because they have to as required by Aerobic Instructor Bylaws: Section 4- Care and Training of Class Members Unfit to Wear Bike Shorts in Public. Whatever. My goal is not to not trip over my laces or vomit up the banana I just ate 30 minutes before coming to class. If I ever work my way back into single digit pants, I will let you know.