OK, maybe it isn't abusive to everyone, but it erodes my self esteem every time I get that DVD out. Just a little.
Granted, it is a great workout...for those people who can actually follow basic dance steps. And I can do all of the leg lifts, punches, and footwork. Just not together.
I have found that I am a danger to people, pets, small children and furniture. It is just not right. The cat sees me move the coffee table and runs to hide under the bed until the music stops.
Smart cat.
Attempting Tae Bo reminds me of the early 90's when I thought I would jump on the club fitness bandwagon. I became the proud owner of an official gym membership that was automatically deducted from my bank account on a monthly basis so that when I realized I was a) totally clumsy and b) not likely to use it half of the time, I would be under contractual obligation to continue.
I was so excited! It was going to be fun! And it WAS until I actually went to the gym.
It was bad enough that all of the girls with the perfect bods were in every class that fit my schedule, but I just could not get the hang of ANY of it. If they were moving left, I was going right. If they were moving up on the step, I was coming down. If they were criss-crossing forward, I was stepping on my shoelaces.
And forget trying to hide in the back. Mirrors, mirrors everywhere. One of the instructors, subconsciously sensing my distress, used to switch the back to the front and front to the back. My attempts at fading into the background were useless. I ended up step tapping from side to side for most of the class, trying not to bump into anyone.
And, unlike the lovely little lycra outfits on most of the fit, firm gals, my boyfriend's sweatpants would bunch up on me in the most unattractive way at the least opportune times. Blah.
It was then that I discovered treadmills. LOVE them. No skill required, other than walking, of course. Even I can walk. Most of the time. Sheesh! The the whole sweatpant bunching thing became a non-issue.
Does any of this really matter in the big scheme of things? No. But it is a sad, sad day when I am alone in the living room with a DVD I have done dozens of times and can still, on occasion, have the fleeting sensation that I am a clutsy dink.
I do know that, should I ever join another gym, I would just do my own thing in the back of the class and chuckle. Steps, schmeps. I am there, right?
What I realize now that I didn't realize then is that no one cares that I am a lame-o. And if for some odd reason they did care, it wouldn't matter anyway.
That is the best thing that comes along with aging.
Time for a cookie. Or two.
Until next time, happy tripping.
Theresa
Granted, it is a great workout...for those people who can actually follow basic dance steps. And I can do all of the leg lifts, punches, and footwork. Just not together.
I have found that I am a danger to people, pets, small children and furniture. It is just not right. The cat sees me move the coffee table and runs to hide under the bed until the music stops.
Smart cat.
Attempting Tae Bo reminds me of the early 90's when I thought I would jump on the club fitness bandwagon. I became the proud owner of an official gym membership that was automatically deducted from my bank account on a monthly basis so that when I realized I was a) totally clumsy and b) not likely to use it half of the time, I would be under contractual obligation to continue.
I was so excited! It was going to be fun! And it WAS until I actually went to the gym.
It was bad enough that all of the girls with the perfect bods were in every class that fit my schedule, but I just could not get the hang of ANY of it. If they were moving left, I was going right. If they were moving up on the step, I was coming down. If they were criss-crossing forward, I was stepping on my shoelaces.
And forget trying to hide in the back. Mirrors, mirrors everywhere. One of the instructors, subconsciously sensing my distress, used to switch the back to the front and front to the back. My attempts at fading into the background were useless. I ended up step tapping from side to side for most of the class, trying not to bump into anyone.
And, unlike the lovely little lycra outfits on most of the fit, firm gals, my boyfriend's sweatpants would bunch up on me in the most unattractive way at the least opportune times. Blah.
It was then that I discovered treadmills. LOVE them. No skill required, other than walking, of course. Even I can walk. Most of the time. Sheesh! The the whole sweatpant bunching thing became a non-issue.
Does any of this really matter in the big scheme of things? No. But it is a sad, sad day when I am alone in the living room with a DVD I have done dozens of times and can still, on occasion, have the fleeting sensation that I am a clutsy dink.
I do know that, should I ever join another gym, I would just do my own thing in the back of the class and chuckle. Steps, schmeps. I am there, right?
What I realize now that I didn't realize then is that no one cares that I am a lame-o. And if for some odd reason they did care, it wouldn't matter anyway.
That is the best thing that comes along with aging.
Time for a cookie. Or two.
Until next time, happy tripping.
Theresa
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