Picture this, I’m drunk, dressed in something cute with my high heels on, burning up the dance floor with all kinds of enthusiasm for roughly four to five songs in a row, with maybe a break as I switch dance partners, go to the bar for a rest and some water, or make a quick run to the bathroom to wipe the sweat from my brow (who am I kidding, from my entire body…bah!). Put that activity on repeat over a span of five hours and I will emerge from that experience with sore feet, perhaps some muscle tenderness in my thighs where I perhaps, dropped it like it was hot one too many times, but otherwise, I feel great.
Take some of those same moves, subtract the alcohol and high heels, put me in some yoga pants, a sports bra, and an oversized tee-shirt; instead of a dance floor, toss me onto the padded flooring at the fitness studio up the street and then dial 9-1-1 because I’m going to be gasping for air, clutching my aching sides, and wondering what in the hell I was thinking trying to take a dance aerobics class at my age. What gives? I can usually dance the pants of most folks at the club but in the fitness studio? I’m stumbling over my feet as I am somewhat lightheaded with exhaustion. There’s also my loss of coordination as I can’t seem to find the proper beat to save my life.
Kidding! I’m kidding here. At least about being lightheaded. Seriously, as I enjoyed my first dance aerobic class last night, I was indeed pondering – while messing up the choreography something fierce, perhaps a bit too much pondering and not enough paying attention to how the move was supposed to go – why is it that this same activity done on a hard, sometimes concrete floor, with 4 to 6 inch heels on, while under the influence of a couple STIFF drinks, doesn’t seem to cause me as much stress as it does when someone calls it “exercise”?
It made me think of riding my bike as a kid. I would spend hours spinning around the neighborhood with the crew. HOURS at a stretch where we would maybe stop for a few minutes here and there to grab some water or discuss where we were going next. But now plop me on a stationary bike or goodness forbid, put me in a spin class, and I’m about ready to pass out after five minutes. Or how about walking? I can stroll around the city, take walking tours through ancient ruins, wonder lose through a nature preserve with not a care as to how far I’ve walked. I may eventually get tired, but eh, no big deal. Change that trail to a treadmill. UGH. My legs stop wanting to cooperate. In fact, they will openly rebel within minutes.
All of that aside, I’m glad I went. Tomorrow it’s yoga-robics. I have the feeling my “downward facing dog” is never going to be the same ;-).