Exercising has never been one of my favorite things to do.
In fact, I hated it up until a year ago. No longer able to blame my extra girth on baby weight (my youngest is 25 years old) I realized with a heavy heart that my belly was not going to go down on its own, and the only thing following me was my rear end.
The exercise club I belonged to had everything the health conscious woman would want. Weight machines, tread mills, rowing machines, it was a muscle addict’s dream.
Step and Aerobic classes consisted of anything from beginner, expert and that’s-ok-I’ll-stand-here-in-the-back-row. I was able to keep up but I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t wait for the class to be over and kept a constant eye on the clock.
Spinning class wasn’t much better. Picture rows and rows of stationery bikes filled with apoplectic faced people going nowhere. Not my idea of a good time.
I was just about ready to give up, when I spied a new class being offered. It was named “PIYO”, which was a combination of Pilates and Yoga class.
I had no idea what this class was going to be like, but I was in for the surprise of my life.
I absolutely loved it. The instructor was classically trained in ballet and dance, a seasoned performer, a fact that was surprising given her young twenty something age. She was magnificent. Starting slowly, we learned to do plies, stretches and other ballet movements. We felt like little ballerinas. There we were, our arms above our heads, elegant rows of women who gently swept the ground with our hands, in time with the beat of a John Mayer ballad.
We watched her, all of us, as she taught us how to bend our bodies into yoga positions we had long forgotten, able to stretch further than we ever thought possible. Our arms would glide effortlessly through the air, mimicing her. Not content with the traditional downward-facing-dog and warrior stance, we molded our bodies to move as one, and while we laid on our backs, circling our legs in the air to move into pilates. If it were anywhere else, it would seem comical. But we worked in tandem, loving every minute and not wanting it to end. I never looked at the clock and was disappointed when it was time to say goodbye. Knowing smiles as the reward for completing a section and skin glistening with perspiration, we rested on our yoga mats awaiting the next sequence. The bonds we had formed with each other was just this side of amazing.
Every now and then she peppered her instruction with “Suck in those bellies!” and “Don’t forget to breath!” to make sure we were paying attention. She was as tired as we were, but you knew she loved teaching us as much as we loved learning from her. All of us drenched in sweat, not merely ladylike perspiration, we laughed as we grunted and sang with the music if we had any strength left.
The music she used was anything from modern to oldies to 80’s to show tunes. We never knew what she was going to do, and we loved it.
We loved her.
Months went by and my body began to take the shape I had only envisioned. Sore but confident, joy quickly turned to disbelief when one day we learned she was no longer able to teach our class. Flabbergasted, we reached out to each other to make sure everyone had learned the devastating news. The reasons don’t matter. It is what it is.
Emails and chance meetings in hall ways brought us all to the same conclusion. We were heartbroken and angry, not only that we weren’t going to be seeing her, but we wouldn’t see each other either, at least not in the same way we had come to know and love.
What has stayed with me all this time is how very different we are, we little ballerinas, yet if affected us all in the same way. We are at different stages in our lives, and although some have met for coffee outside the club, it was a form of friendship that stayed between the walls of the gym. Together we felt deeply the loss so great as if we had been punched in the stomach or the death of someone close to us.
The power of the friendship of women is not to be taken lightly. We know that we will all work out again together someday, and that our meeting is not coincidental. We have made connections both separately and collectively, and our feelings of affection are true and real.
In fact, I hated it up until a year ago. No longer able to blame my extra girth on baby weight (my youngest is 25 years old) I realized with a heavy heart that my belly was not going to go down on its own, and the only thing following me was my rear end.
The exercise club I belonged to had everything the health conscious woman would want. Weight machines, tread mills, rowing machines, it was a muscle addict’s dream.
Step and Aerobic classes consisted of anything from beginner, expert and that’s-ok-I’ll-stand-here-in-the-back-row. I was able to keep up but I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t wait for the class to be over and kept a constant eye on the clock.
Spinning class wasn’t much better. Picture rows and rows of stationery bikes filled with apoplectic faced people going nowhere. Not my idea of a good time.
I was just about ready to give up, when I spied a new class being offered. It was named “PIYO”, which was a combination of Pilates and Yoga class.
I had no idea what this class was going to be like, but I was in for the surprise of my life.
I absolutely loved it. The instructor was classically trained in ballet and dance, a seasoned performer, a fact that was surprising given her young twenty something age. She was magnificent. Starting slowly, we learned to do plies, stretches and other ballet movements. We felt like little ballerinas. There we were, our arms above our heads, elegant rows of women who gently swept the ground with our hands, in time with the beat of a John Mayer ballad.
We watched her, all of us, as she taught us how to bend our bodies into yoga positions we had long forgotten, able to stretch further than we ever thought possible. Our arms would glide effortlessly through the air, mimicing her. Not content with the traditional downward-facing-dog and warrior stance, we molded our bodies to move as one, and while we laid on our backs, circling our legs in the air to move into pilates. If it were anywhere else, it would seem comical. But we worked in tandem, loving every minute and not wanting it to end. I never looked at the clock and was disappointed when it was time to say goodbye. Knowing smiles as the reward for completing a section and skin glistening with perspiration, we rested on our yoga mats awaiting the next sequence. The bonds we had formed with each other was just this side of amazing.
Every now and then she peppered her instruction with “Suck in those bellies!” and “Don’t forget to breath!” to make sure we were paying attention. She was as tired as we were, but you knew she loved teaching us as much as we loved learning from her. All of us drenched in sweat, not merely ladylike perspiration, we laughed as we grunted and sang with the music if we had any strength left.
The music she used was anything from modern to oldies to 80’s to show tunes. We never knew what she was going to do, and we loved it.
We loved her.
Months went by and my body began to take the shape I had only envisioned. Sore but confident, joy quickly turned to disbelief when one day we learned she was no longer able to teach our class. Flabbergasted, we reached out to each other to make sure everyone had learned the devastating news. The reasons don’t matter. It is what it is.
Emails and chance meetings in hall ways brought us all to the same conclusion. We were heartbroken and angry, not only that we weren’t going to be seeing her, but we wouldn’t see each other either, at least not in the same way we had come to know and love.
What has stayed with me all this time is how very different we are, we little ballerinas, yet if affected us all in the same way. We are at different stages in our lives, and although some have met for coffee outside the club, it was a form of friendship that stayed between the walls of the gym. Together we felt deeply the loss so great as if we had been punched in the stomach or the death of someone close to us.
The power of the friendship of women is not to be taken lightly. We know that we will all work out again together someday, and that our meeting is not coincidental. We have made connections both separately and collectively, and our feelings of affection are true and real.
I will be forever grateful to the woman who brought me back to life and to appreciate the simple acts of movement, to feel like a dancer again, and for the friendships forged out of the sweat of our ordeal.
I know this is not the end. Just a new step towards another dance.
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