A good hurt

The gym at work is called, irritatingly enough, “The Healthy Weigh Fitness Center.” I hesitated about joining for months because I had convinced myself that I was not a gym person. I have never bought in to what I consider traditional forms of exercise, opting instead to train to be an Olympic gymnast, run around a football field with a flag, climb rock walls, and torture myself into 5Ks. However, the reality set in that I have not done any strenuous physical activity since my last race. Which was in May. As in, six months ago. So! As of this week, I am a member of the fitness center. Now, I can use the equipment in the gym and take advantage of the classes taught by the spunky fitness coordinator, all for a whopping monthly fee of $10.

On Monday, I took my first Pilates class, and I expected it to be like yoga, which I find comfortably challenging and mostly relaxing. Pilates was similar in that I used a yoga mat, but in all other respects, I was dead wrong. Primarily, it was not relaxing. I had no control over my exercise ball, and I bruised my tailbone (or something like that) during those roll-on-your-back maneuvers. After the 45-minute class, I felt like someone had squeezed my abdominal muscles and then twisted for good measure. For the next three days, my stomach hurt when I sneezed or laughed, and not just the middle, like the day after a lot of crunches; I felt sore all the way up to my sternum, and I didn’t know I had muscles there that could be sore.

Just in time for me to recover from Pilates, I took a class last night with the intimidating title, “Total Body Conditioning.” I suspected that the class would be good for me, but I didn’t know how to do some of the things on the list of circuit exercises. My doubts were confirmed when I was told to grab an exercise ball, a jump rope, three sets of hand weights, and a yoga mat. Hoo boy. The class proceeded to beat me up during one of the longest hours of my life. I barely managed the first two jump rope intervals, reverting to jogging in place for the rest of them. During a set of push-ups on the ball, I paused to catch my breath until I realized that I was the only one still pushing up, and everyone else was waiting for me. They were all patient and nice, but I was mortified. My quads burned, my arms shook, my cheeks turned bright red, and my hair kept falling out of its ponytail. I was a complete mess, but I struggled on to the end.

Before I limped back to the locker room, the instructor said brightly, “You did such a good job on your first try!”

I let out a wheezy laugh and shrugged.

“No, don’t worry,” a fellow participant said, “you’ll be much better even after a few classes.”

I believed them, even though I felt like I’d been mauled. I’d be sore the next day, and probably the day after that, too. I knew the challenge was good for me, and I was already formulating goals for the next time. Breathe properly. Do the ball push-ups without stopping. Get through three cycles of jumping rope.

This morning, it’s hard for me to use the stairs, and every time I stand up, I let out a groan. My biceps hurt for the first time in years, but it’s definitely a good hurt.