Setting my alarm clock to “Eye of the Tiger” seemed like a good idea in theory. Turns out it makes me want to punch Survivor’s lead singer square in the jaw.
Caffeine. I need caffeine. It’s 8:05. I have exactly ten minutes to get this sports bra over my head, brush my teeth, pack a change of clothes for — oh, I’m starving. What I really want is that Nutella french toast I dream-fed myself last night but alas, a banana it is. And I’m off!
I’m only wearing one sock.
This gym-cum-disco smells like microwaved cheese nachos and the music is way too aggressive for an 8:30 am class. Why does everyone look like they’re about to audition for the local crossfit pageant? Oooh, where did that woman get those cat print fitness pants? Ugh. I look like a dad who only shops on Amazon Prime.
“Hey ladies! And some gentlemen! Who’s ready to [spin, run, lift, stretch, plank, dance]? Do we have any first-timers in the room?”
I’ve been coming to this class every Monday for the past six weeks. I raise my hand.
“Welcome! I’m Jaylee! Alright everybody, jog in place now.”
I wonder where Jaylee is from. Did she always want to spread fitness? No, Jaylee is a theater girl. She auditioned for the role of Elphaba Thropp in Wicked but didn’t get the part. She’s scared to break the news to her mom, who sold her cuticles on the black market so Jaylee could test the Broadway waters. Maybe.
Why is it only 8:36?
My knees feel like jelly potstickers and every time I jump I am reminded of my small but motion-sensitive breasts. My ass should come with its own passport because that thing is going the distance and I am sweating out of every orifice.
Jaylee wants us to pick up our three pound weights. Why did I even come here? I could be having breakfast. Or watching Live! with Kelly and Michael while giving myself arm chills. I wonder how many hands have touched these weights. I wonder how many of those hands were washed. Oh god. Did I wash my hands? I wonder how much longer Jaylee will make us perform these “incremental movements intended to lift your buns and lengthen those limbs!”
I don’t want to be looking in the mirror, but my reflection is a welcome distraction from my self-self, who is trying her hardest not to pass wind during a tap-back.
YES! A Taylor Swift song, finally. Now I can get into this.
8:46.17. Tay should really reconsider the typical length of her songs. Can an ab break in half? If I walk out, will anybody notice? No Esther, pull through. There are 15 minutes left. That’s 14 minutes and one plank for 72-hours worth of excuses to eat whatever you want. Because you earned it.
I can’t see the clock for the sweat is dropping in my eyes. Jesus, it’s hot in here. WILL SOMEBODY TURN UP THE DAMN AC BEFORE I CROAK OR WORSE START SWEATING FROM THAT CRACK.
Holy marbles we’re at the home stretch. Jaylee, give me some Beyoncé. Some 80s Cher. Anything but — Mumford and Sons? Really? I can do this. I once squat-peed for 30 seconds. I’m climbing up this hill. I’m reaching that goal. I’m carrying that victory flag. I see you! I see you mom! I’m COMING HOME!!!!!