Young 'uns and old people, we're not so different after all you know. It might seem that we are; oldies might be a bit more wrinkly, a little bit more easily perturbed by the prospect of the local corner shop's hours being changed for example, but we ain't that different.
And never is this likeness more apparent than when you step foot into an exercise class called Dancercise. Hop into Studio 1 at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning and it's come one, come all. Ahh, yes: breathe in everybody, and let all ages join together in a bubbling mass of absolute bewilderment.
I had sort of envisaged a fairly youthful group, clad in combats and tight, ripped Punkyfish tops all nodding their heads to a bit of Beverly Knight. In actual fact, what I got was more Church Hall Charleston than Down With Detroit. How can I put this. Have you ever seen One Man and His Dog? You know when the sheep all get herded up, and they're knocking heads together, bashing into each other, legs flailing trying to follow what all the others are doing? That was basically the Dancercise class this morning. Except the sheep were baffled, middle age ladies and instead of running into pens, they were doing "jazz boxes" (don't ask me) around a room to a sped up CD of Now That's What I Call Samba.
This isn't a case of me ripping the oldies for not having rhythm. To be honest, I was just as flummoxed as them. In fact, if I hadn't been busy wiping the look of sheer amusement off my face and trying not to piss myself laughing in full view of the mirror, I think I'd have been as visibly unhappy as the 60 year old woman next to me. You should have seen her worried little face when the words 'extended grapevine' boomed across the speakers. At one point she confessed to me how "anxious" she was, how much she wanted to leave, but stayed because she didn't want to seem rude. And anyway, having seen me (a young'un) equally lost, it made her feel a bit better. Great. Just call me Twinkle Toes.
After 40 minutes and four converging routines, it became apparent that this wasn't a dance class, this was a special needs shack-out. A particular highlight was one of the ladies (standing at the front, near the speakers) tapping her ear and asking for the music to be turned down. It was hilarious. I was prancing around, flicking my legs, doing moves that had absolutely no semblance to what we were shown - and by the end I think we'd all given up. All except for the Smug Bastard. There's one in every class; the one who knows all the moves and performs them with added pizazz and flair. Her taking the whole thing so seriously made me grin with mirth even more. As the hour drew to a close, even the instructor began to lose the plot; forgetting the routine half way through over and over again until even Smug Bastard upped and left.
Jaaaysus. It went on for days. Eventually it ended, and you've never seen 20 people scarper so fast. Verdict? First time I've ever had sweats from tedium alone. Never again.
Next week, Tai Chi?
Showing posts with label gyms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gyms. Show all posts
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Porquoi?
Ahhh, "WHY".
That great question of our life and times, gateway to knowledge and a harvest of the brain. Mmm, knowledge. Observe:
E.g. Why is e.g short for "for example"? Shouldn't it be "F.e."? Why is the sky mostly grey? Why do people insist on trying to make dungarees fashionable every couple of years? Why do British people queue so much for everything? Why do some places charge such extortionate amounts for a cup of peppermint tea, when by rights it's just hot water and a few leaves? Why does the sound of someone eating make my stomach boil with irrevocable fury? Why does the North Circular break, delaying thousands of commuters on route to work - every - single - day? Why do cyclists wear lycra on the way to work, does it really increase their speed that much?
Why when I turned up for Boxercise the other night, on the one night I decided to actually use the scathing, money grabbing arse-pit of a gym that I'm a member of straight after work and wait an hour and a quarter for a class to start, did no one turn up apart from me and another equally baffled couple? Why did the receptionist not know what was going on, where the instructor was or why it wasn't running? Why was Stability Ball, a class that requires you to be middle aged, incontinent and able to stretch yourself over a large, bouncy ball, the only other class running? Why was it full? Why on that morning, the only morning in the history of portable music, did I pack my bag and fail to include my earphones, was that the one night I had to use the gym because Boxercise inexplicably wasn't running? Why did I choose the one exercise bike next to the man sweating so profusely that a salty stream dripped from his face onto the machine, causing a puddle of bodily fluid to gather on the floor around him? Why did no one go "Mate, that's rank...here's a mop"?
And more importantly:
Why do children pick their nose and eat it? Why do adults think they can't be seen when they pick their nose and inspect it while sitting behind me in a traffic jam? Why do you use your index finger to pick your nose when you're little, then switch to a thumb when you're older?
Pick one. (Not your nose, a question.) Answer it. Make my day.
That great question of our life and times, gateway to knowledge and a harvest of the brain. Mmm, knowledge. Observe:
E.g. Why is e.g short for "for example"? Shouldn't it be "F.e."? Why is the sky mostly grey? Why do people insist on trying to make dungarees fashionable every couple of years? Why do British people queue so much for everything? Why do some places charge such extortionate amounts for a cup of peppermint tea, when by rights it's just hot water and a few leaves? Why does the sound of someone eating make my stomach boil with irrevocable fury? Why does the North Circular break, delaying thousands of commuters on route to work - every - single - day? Why do cyclists wear lycra on the way to work, does it really increase their speed that much?
Why when I turned up for Boxercise the other night, on the one night I decided to actually use the scathing, money grabbing arse-pit of a gym that I'm a member of straight after work and wait an hour and a quarter for a class to start, did no one turn up apart from me and another equally baffled couple? Why did the receptionist not know what was going on, where the instructor was or why it wasn't running? Why was Stability Ball, a class that requires you to be middle aged, incontinent and able to stretch yourself over a large, bouncy ball, the only other class running? Why was it full? Why on that morning, the only morning in the history of portable music, did I pack my bag and fail to include my earphones, was that the one night I had to use the gym because Boxercise inexplicably wasn't running? Why did I choose the one exercise bike next to the man sweating so profusely that a salty stream dripped from his face onto the machine, causing a puddle of bodily fluid to gather on the floor around him? Why did no one go "Mate, that's rank...here's a mop"?
And more importantly:
Why do children pick their nose and eat it? Why do adults think they can't be seen when they pick their nose and inspect it while sitting behind me in a traffic jam? Why do you use your index finger to pick your nose when you're little, then switch to a thumb when you're older?
Pick one. (Not your nose, a question.) Answer it. Make my day.
Friday, 19 June 2009
Body Conditioning
Conversation 1
"Well, the thing is...it's just stupid isn't it? I mean, what's the point? There's just no need to even have one is there?"
"Well that's the thing. It just gets in the way, doesn't it? What's the point?"
"Exactly, I mean - the other night they just had a man out there from the time I arrived until the time I left. I don't know why they don't just hire someone to stand there and check the cards on the way out. Just get an elderly man, pay minimum wage; at a time like this they'd be grateful for the job!"
"Mmm yes, exactly."
------
Conversation 2
"It's cooked breakfasts that do it, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. I mean, especially on holiday. If there's one on offer I'll just eat it! At home it's not a problem, I'll just have some muesli but it's..."
"Yes, well, it's bacon isn't it."
"Well that's it. Bacon. I mean, I take my son to music school on a Saturday morning, and they've just started handing out bacon sandwiches as you go in! It's a nightmare, and he's all oh mummy, get a sandwich, so I have to!"
"Hmmm, but I have found an alternative to cheese. Yes, you can make macaroni cheese with creme fraiche and well, you know it's not as good but with a solid vegetable layer underneath it's almost as tasty."
As I stood outside the doors to Studio 1 at half ten this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from bolting back down the stairs. I'd already missed the 9:30am Pilates Improvers after arriving late. A glance through the Studio 3's windows had revealed a darkened room with green mood lighting and a lycra clad crowd already horizontal on mats. An hour later, back upstairs in the realm of the Exercise Class, it wasn't the prospect of exercise itself that made me want to run far, far away. It was the inane wittering of the gathered women; the whinging, lamenting, dieting crowd yabbering on about alternatives for cheddar cheese and the new code activated barriers that let you in and out of the gym carpark.
At first I kept to myself, standing with my back flat against the wall and earwigging on Conversation 1 and looking around for someone under the age of 40. Next thing I knew, two more women had migrated next to me and were including me in Conversation 2, looking my way for input. I smiled and nodded along, laughing politely in the right places and saying things like "Ooh, yeah, I love cheese". I gathered that apparently it's ok to love cheese, as long as you don't eat it (or at least feel guilty while you do). It appears the endurance test for Body Conditioning starts well before you go through those doors and start prancing around to ABBA remixed.
An hour later; stretched, energised, toned and feeling rather better about myself than when I went in, I treated myself to a banana in the cafe. My phone rang.
"Hellooo, where are you? I'm bored at work."
"I'm at the gym. Just been to body conditioning"
"Eurrrghh, so are you all sweaty? Yuck, bet you are"
"No, well, it was alright actually. Might even go again. Missed pilates so did this one instead..."
"Bloody hell. It's a hard life you've got, isn't it?"
You're telling me. It's Dancercise next week.
"Well, the thing is...it's just stupid isn't it? I mean, what's the point? There's just no need to even have one is there?"
"Well that's the thing. It just gets in the way, doesn't it? What's the point?"
"Exactly, I mean - the other night they just had a man out there from the time I arrived until the time I left. I don't know why they don't just hire someone to stand there and check the cards on the way out. Just get an elderly man, pay minimum wage; at a time like this they'd be grateful for the job!"
"Mmm yes, exactly."
------
Conversation 2
"It's cooked breakfasts that do it, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. I mean, especially on holiday. If there's one on offer I'll just eat it! At home it's not a problem, I'll just have some muesli but it's..."
"Yes, well, it's bacon isn't it."
"Well that's it. Bacon. I mean, I take my son to music school on a Saturday morning, and they've just started handing out bacon sandwiches as you go in! It's a nightmare, and he's all oh mummy, get a sandwich, so I have to!"
"Hmmm, but I have found an alternative to cheese. Yes, you can make macaroni cheese with creme fraiche and well, you know it's not as good but with a solid vegetable layer underneath it's almost as tasty."
As I stood outside the doors to Studio 1 at half ten this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from bolting back down the stairs. I'd already missed the 9:30am Pilates Improvers after arriving late. A glance through the Studio 3's windows had revealed a darkened room with green mood lighting and a lycra clad crowd already horizontal on mats. An hour later, back upstairs in the realm of the Exercise Class, it wasn't the prospect of exercise itself that made me want to run far, far away. It was the inane wittering of the gathered women; the whinging, lamenting, dieting crowd yabbering on about alternatives for cheddar cheese and the new code activated barriers that let you in and out of the gym carpark.
At first I kept to myself, standing with my back flat against the wall and earwigging on Conversation 1 and looking around for someone under the age of 40. Next thing I knew, two more women had migrated next to me and were including me in Conversation 2, looking my way for input. I smiled and nodded along, laughing politely in the right places and saying things like "Ooh, yeah, I love cheese". I gathered that apparently it's ok to love cheese, as long as you don't eat it (or at least feel guilty while you do). It appears the endurance test for Body Conditioning starts well before you go through those doors and start prancing around to ABBA remixed.
An hour later; stretched, energised, toned and feeling rather better about myself than when I went in, I treated myself to a banana in the cafe. My phone rang.
"Hellooo, where are you? I'm bored at work."
"I'm at the gym. Just been to body conditioning"
"Eurrrghh, so are you all sweaty? Yuck, bet you are"
"No, well, it was alright actually. Might even go again. Missed pilates so did this one instead..."
"Bloody hell. It's a hard life you've got, isn't it?"
You're telling me. It's Dancercise next week.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Ridiculous.
The gym, yesterday.
Waiting in front of me at the coffee bar is a woman who is evidently a regular at my sports club. Probably the owner of one of many huge black Land Rovers parked outside, hot pink manicured fingers, sleek short brown hair. Tennis racket resting against bronzed legs. Kids with the au pair. Mouth moving at 100mph on an orange face, often found talking loudly to all the other middle aged ladies who are lucky enough to work the kind of hours which allow an afternoon of racquet sports. On first name terms with the staff (only the important ones) and is taking up valuable space in front of the bar talking to one as I approach.
She pauses her drivel long enough to order a drink.
"I'll have a hot chocolate with skimmed milk, in a small cup, no cream and oh, no froth." she says, loudly, turning round to check who's heard her.
I smile at how ridiculous she is. She laughs at how clever she's being.
Which bozo invented the Skinny Hot Chocolate?
More to the point, what kind of bozo bothers to order one?
Hot chocolates were made so that all the skinny latte drinkers can have some fun once in a while; to be drunk with cream and marshmallows adorning the top.
Skimmed - milk - no - cream. Who's she kidding. That won't make her happy.
Waiting in front of me at the coffee bar is a woman who is evidently a regular at my sports club. Probably the owner of one of many huge black Land Rovers parked outside, hot pink manicured fingers, sleek short brown hair. Tennis racket resting against bronzed legs. Kids with the au pair. Mouth moving at 100mph on an orange face, often found talking loudly to all the other middle aged ladies who are lucky enough to work the kind of hours which allow an afternoon of racquet sports. On first name terms with the staff (only the important ones) and is taking up valuable space in front of the bar talking to one as I approach.
She pauses her drivel long enough to order a drink.
"I'll have a hot chocolate with skimmed milk, in a small cup, no cream and oh, no froth." she says, loudly, turning round to check who's heard her.
I smile at how ridiculous she is. She laughs at how clever she's being.
Which bozo invented the Skinny Hot Chocolate?
More to the point, what kind of bozo bothers to order one?
Hot chocolates were made so that all the skinny latte drinkers can have some fun once in a while; to be drunk with cream and marshmallows adorning the top.
Skimmed - milk - no - cream. Who's she kidding. That won't make her happy.
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