Ah, youth — a deceptively distant memory.
I joined a barre class.
Spoiler: it was a big mistake.
Intimidated by the midriff-revealing twenty-something bunnies at the local gym, I joined a ladies-only fitness centre tucked away in suburbia.
My exercise routine consists of a little cardio (walking downstairs to grab a snack) and stretching (for the remote).
I approached my first fitness class with a healthy attitude — and with the assurance from the instructor that I would not be the worst in the class.
I was.
Barre
Having donned a tutu in my youth and retaining complete faith in muscle memory, I was pretty sure I had this.
I had forgotten about pliés.
This is serious strength training. My legs did not just quiver — they shook.
I mean, spasm-type shake.
How those graceful ballerinas and ballerinos leap and glide across the stage like they’re suspended on a wire is beyond my comprehension.
I began contemplating moving the bed downstairs.
Going down the stairs is easy — it’s a controlled fall, after all.
Going up stairs is another matter entirely. Lifting a quad induces an involuntary groan from somewhere deep and primal.
I will go back.
I will.
I will.
I will.
Update:
I did not go back to barre.
I did try an introductory silk aerial class and could not walk properly for a week.