I went to a yoga class for the first time on Tuesday. Apparently the Dean's secretary is a consistent frequenter. I sidled my mat up next to hers and we became yoga buddies. The next day I was wrecked. Muscles ached that I didn't know even existed. But that didn't hold a candle to yesterday.
Yesterday was a cardio class. It was led by a spry 62-year-old who, no doubt, took glee in remarking to the rest of us youngsters that we should be able to keep up with her when some of us started losing steam near the end. I wanted to pick up my barbells and throw them at the mirror. How dare I not be able to keep up with a grandma who is almost twice my age? She looked fab, though. Fit little gray-haired lady with a pixie cut, gloriously sweating with a radiant smile. Ugh. Meanwhile my thirty-something self is over here praying that no one mistakes my chunky midsection for a growing bundle of joy. Not yet, folks. Felt steamrolled after that one, though. Like, I came home ready to give up the ghost. Couldn't laugh or cough or get up off the couch without feeling like I was dying inside. I shall forge ahead.
On Saturday there's a "RIPPED" class. It's probably going to kill me. But I said at least three times a week. I must be a woman of my word.
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